


Threepenny Tinsley

by GreenEggsAndSpam



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Bickering, Con Man Ricky Goldsworth, Covert Hot Daga References, Detective Noir, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Here For the Mob Stuff, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Past Drug Addiction, Period-Typical Homophobia/Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postwar Angst, Private Investigator C. C. Tinsley, Private Investigators, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24687490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenEggsAndSpam/pseuds/GreenEggsAndSpam
Summary: Months after the end of the Second World War, C.C. Tinsley has settled into a quiet life as Gauley Bridge, West Virginia's only private investigator. He's left Los Angeles and its teeming criminal underbelly behind him, forever. That is, until brazen con man Ricky Goldsworth shows up in his office with important information about his biggest case ... and a mob bounty on his head. Even worse, Ricky wants to hire him.Now stranded alone with Ricky in New York City, Tinsley is forced to confront the fact that, while it's good to keep your enemies close, this one may be getting too close for comfort.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Comments: 80
Kudos: 134





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical inaccuracies will most likely be frequent, especially in the dialogue. Apologies in advance.

"I know what happened to those kids."

He stared, his finger on the trigger of the gun in his jacket, hoping to a god he didn't really believe in that it was loaded. "No you don't," he said, blinked, and then, "How the hell'd you find me, anyway?"

The man in the grey overcoat grinned, his waxed mustache lifting slightly over teeth that always seemed a little too bright, a little too sharp. It was the kind of smile that seemed to conjure the tune of "Mackie Messer" directly into the mind of whoever saw it. He pulled his hands from the pockets of his overcoat and spread his arms, palms up. _I'm unarmed_ , the gesture said. _Trust me_. "I'm Ricky Goldsworth."

As if that explained everything. 

* * *

  
C.C. Tinsley had met with George Sodder that morning. He'd had to break the news - since the heart-in-a-box thing had turned out to be a bust, he didn't have any more leads on the kids. There was nothing more he could do.

George, bless him, nodded and said he understood. That lie was for the detective's benefit. Tinsley would bet good money that Sodder wouldn't stop until he either found some answers or shrugged off his mortal coil, whichever came first. But for Tinsley at least, this case would have to remain unsolved.

It didn't happen to him often, that a case turned cold. Being a private eye in Gauley Bridge, West Virginia mostly involved long periods of desk-sitting interspersed with the occasional voyeuristic photoshoot of a philandering husband. Yes, Mrs. Mapes, your sweet Gene has indeed been putting his pickle in Susie Winslow from the Moonlight Diner. Of course you can have the negatives. Now please give me my twenty-five dollars so I can keep the lights on this month.

The Sodder case was different. It was huge and weird and tangled, and Tinsley found he didn't even know which thread to start pulling and probably never would. So after George left his office that morning, he went back to what he knew best, which was desk-sitting. He crossed his long gangly legs and leaned back in his chair and put his feet up. His unkempt brown hair fell over his eyes, and he blew at it distractedly.

He wasn't sure why he felt disappointed. After all, he'd come out here to the middle of nowhere _because_ it was boring. No more danger for C.C., that's what he'd told himself. He'd had enough, thanks. 

He really wasn't a brave man. He could talk tough, but it was always all for show. Just sitting and thinking about those poor Sodder kids, burning to death, most likely… it weighed on him more than it had any right to. By the afternoon his secretary had left - he could only afford to keep her part-time - and the office was silent, leaving him alone with his thoughts of the kids in the fire. Burning, screaming… It took him almost an hour to realize he was teetering on the edge of another fit. He just managed to subdue the tremors, and to fight off the cravings that now went with them, but it made him feel dirty and skittish for the rest of the day. By the time early evening rolled around, he had been sitting and stewing in his own misery for well on three hours. What a life, huh? He knew he should've become a park ranger. Well, there was still time...

That was when the bell rang and the front office door opened.

Tinsley sat upright in his chair, shrugging his dark blue suit jacket onto his shoulders and trying to make himself look at least vaguely presentable. "Be with ya in a minute," he called out, worried that any potential client left unattended in the rather depressing front office would think the place was abandoned and leave.

He could see the dark outline of a man through the frosted glass window of his own office door. His detective's brain had started gathering details already: short, stocky maybe, wearing a hat. Then a voice. "Take your time." 

It was familiar, and not in the good way. Worse, he knew exactly who it belonged to.

"Shit," Tinsley hissed, clumsily pawing at the top drawer of his desk. He eventually managed to retrieve his revolver and stuff it into his jacket. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest as he made his way around the desk. He only hesitated a moment before throwing open the door.

The young man standing in the front office was dressed in a crisp grey overcoat and a felt hat and had his hands in his pockets. His skin was tan and his hair jet-black, and he looked up at Tinsley with sharp dark eyes.

"I know what happened to those kids."

"No you don't. How the hell'd you find me, anyway?"

"I'm Ricky Goldsworth."

He was. Tinsley gritted his teeth. "Look, I'm through chasing you," he said. He was aware that he was unshaven and his eyes were wide and he probably looked quite crazy, but he didn't care. "I've had it. Your lifetime of insurance fraud? Not worth it. The fake checks? Chump change. I don't give a shit. Honestly, I thought my leaving LA forever would've clued you in. You won. I'm donezo."

Ricky shrugged, put his hands back into his pockets, and grinned. "You'll never stop chasing me, Tins. You don't have it in you to give up. That big head is all bone." His hand moved, and Tinsley's fingers tightened around the gun. The hand emerged with a pack of cigarettes, and Ricky flicked one into his mouth. "Got a light?"

"Smoking's bad for you."

"Buzzkill." Ricky searched his pockets again and produced a box of matches. He struck one on the front desk and lit up, then tossed the match onto the threadbare carpet and ground it under the sole of his polished black Oxford shoe. "Congrats on making it back from the war, by the way," he said, breathing out a puff of smoke. "Heard you spent half of it in the hospital. Did you hurt your knuckles socking ol' Adolf on the jaw?"

Tinsley's eyes narrowed. He whipped out the gun and pointed it right between Ricky's eyes. "Why the fuck are you here? What do you want from me? And no funny stuff, or I'll send your brains into the back of that filing cabinet you skeezy washed-up gangster piece of-"

"Woah, holy shit!" Ricky's hands flew into the air, and he jumped back, his eyes wide. "Easy, big guy, it was just a joke!"

"Shut up and start explaining!"

"Okay! Jesus!" Ricky was at least smart enough not to ask him to put away the gun. His immaculately curled mustache quivered slightly. "...I know what happened to those Sodder kids."

"You do not."

"They're alive."

Tinsley paused. "...They're not," he said flatly. "There’s no way."

Ricky took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling light. "Found the bones, have you?"

Something wasn't right here. Tinsley knew that much. "What would a two-bit LA fraudster know about that? More importantly, what do you care?" He frowned. "Correct me if things have changed since '39, but the Ricky Goldsworth I know would sell his own mother for one potato chip."

"Hey now, my ma's the sweetest lady you'll ever meet."

"Two chips."

Ricky threw up his hands in exasperation. "Okay, wow, you got me. I'm not here out of the kindness of my own heart. Gee whiz, don't I feel awful." He leaned on the front desk. For a moment, he looked genuinely weary. Haggard, almost. "...Honestly, it'll take some time to explain."

Tinsley slowly put the revolver back in his jacket, never taking his eyes off the man in front of him. "I've got all night."

"Great." Ricky grinned at him. "Wanna grab a drink?"

"Absolutely not."

* * *

  
Ricky polished off his second pint, wiping the foam from his mustache. The dim greenish lights inside the bar weren't doing anything for his honest affect. "Nice place. Quiet."

Tinsley nursed his beer, considering calling over TJ to discreetly hit his companion on the head with the large baseball bat he knew he kept behind the bar.

It was still almost hard for him to believe that now, in May of 1946, Ricky Goldsworth, his old LA nemesis, who had managed to evade the law for almost a decade on the force of his personality alone, was sitting across from him at a table in Mike's Soup and Sports Bar, in Bumblefuck Nowhere, West Virginia, chewing absently on a toothpick. Ricky was a flash dresser, so he stood out. That seemed to make him nervous. He glanced briefly around the bar, then blinked at Tinsley. "...I'm not a gangster," he said eventually.

That was probably true, if only technically. Tinsley couldn't imagine Ricky sharing his ill-gotten gains with anyone else. "Congratulations."

"I'm just saying." Ricky pulled the toothpick from his mouth and twirled it around in his fingers. "But when you left LA, I was free to make some … business connections. Meet new people."

Tinsley rolled his eyes. There it was. The man had gotten involved in something he shouldn't have, and things were apparently so dire that it had brought him to the office of his worst enemy. There was only one thing it could be. "Now, these people wouldn't happen to have names like 'Bugsy' or 'Whitey' or 'Mob Boss McMobster,' would they?"

Ricky scowled at him. It was the first time he'd done that all night, and it was immensely satisfying. "Shut up."

"I'm just askin'." Tinsley couldn't help smiling a little. "Well gee, Ricky, I knew you were a slimy coward, but I never pegged you for an _idiot_."

"Fuck you." Ricky tossed the toothpick into Tinsley's drink and folded his arms. "Let's just say some money changed hands, and I need to find the hands it was changed into or I'll be in cement shoes."

"File a police report."

"Very funny. You ever think of taking that comedy routine on the road?"

The two of them lapsed into an uneasy silence. Tinsley fished the toothpick out of his beer and flicked it away. 

Ricky held his hands to his face and sighed, pulling down on his cheeks and revealing the bloodshot whites of his eyes. Tinsley now saw that his chin was flecked with stubble, and his hair stuck out at greasy angles from underneath his expensive hat. The man probably hadn't slept in weeks.

Tinsley didn't feel sorry for him. The guy was a crook. A con man. Who knew, maybe this was all part of the act. But bleak exhaustion wasn't the dashing Ricky Goldsworth's usual M.O. … Tinsley frowned. No, he didn't feel sorry for him. Not even a little bit. "How does the Sodder case enter into this?"

Ricky stuck out his lip. "Look, I need your help, Tins. You're good at finding people who don't want to be found - I would know. I'd hire you the right way if I could. But due to the circumstances I'm a bit strapped for cash." The admission looked like it genuinely hurt him. "So the Sodder thing … it's the quid for your quo. I'm sure the family will be financially appreciative when you crack the case."

It was always about the money. Ricky didn't know how to think in anything but dollars. Tinsley sighed. "You still haven't told me what you know or how you know it."

Ricky cracked a smile. "Sorry, I don't pay up front."

"Then how the hell am I supposed to trust you?!" Tinsley ran a hand through his hair, realizing only just now that he'd left his hat at the office. "What exactly made you think I would go along with this? The mob's not my business."

Ricky shrugged. "Okay, fine. I'll buzz off back to LA and die." He leaned forward, his dark eyes just barely shadowed by the brim of his hat. "But then I guess nobody will ever know what happened to those kids."

There was silence between them again. Tinsley stared into Ricky's leering face, trying to convince himself to just get up and walk out the door. Ten to one said Ricky didn't know anything. The man spun bullshit the way Van Gogh painted stars. If anyone said they genuinely trusted him Tinsley would have a bridge to sell them.

And yet. 

Tinsley didn't need to know what happened to the Sodder kids. People disappeared all the time. But George needed to know. The family needed it. And above all, it was infuriating to think that the man before him might sit there smug with the knowledge and take it with him all the way to the bottom of the San Francisco Bay. Tinsley couldn't let that happen.

"Fine," he said, throwing up his hands. "Fine. I'll take your case."

Ricky grinned. "There, see? That wasn't so hard." He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. It made him look eminently punchable. "Excited to be working with you, partner. By the way, you ever gonna tell me what 'C.C.' stands for?"

"Buzz off." Tinsley decided he'd better start to get serious about his beer. He did not want to remember this when he woke up in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops my first foray into this fandom has turned out to be Tinsworth fic. It will get more exciting in future chapters, I promise.
> 
> Title is a riff on "The Threepenny Opera," which spawned the popular song "Mack the Knife," which I have been treating as Ricky's leitmotif.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Tinsley's office received a call from the historic Altamont Hotel in Fayetteville, saying that Mr. Ricardo Goldsworth expected him for lunch and that they would send over a car. Tinsley tipped the driver when he arrived and climbed the stairs to the wraparound Victorian verandah, where a table covered in a cream-colored cloth had been carefully laid with trays of delicate triangle-shaped sandwiches.

Ricky was already sitting at the table, dressed in a pastel pink Hollywood suit and reading a newspaper. He put the paper down when he heard Tinsley approach. "Long time no see."

Tinsley folded his arms, choosing to remain standing so he could look down disapprovingly on his host. "Yeah, uh, what happened to 'ohh, I'm strapped for cash'?"

Ricky quirked an eyebrow. "When Ricky Goldsworth travels he stays wherever he wants to, cash or no." He spread his hands in a mockery of apology. "What can I say? People just like to give me things."

Tinsley pulled out a chair and took a seat at the table without comment. He picked up a sandwich. "What's in these? Tuna salad?" 

“It’s cream cheese and watercress, you disheveled rube.” Ricky watched him scarf down the sandwich with a disdainful expression. "You'll probably want to know who I need you to find."

Tinsley licked each one of his fingers, then fished a crumb from his stubbly beard into his mouth with his tongue. "Nah. First I want to know _why_ you need to find him. So far all you've said is that this is about money. Do you realize how little that narrows it down?"

Ricky shrugged. "It's complicated."

It was. The yarn Ricky spun him was over-dramatic and hard to follow, much like the man himself. But the gist of it was this:

During the war, Ricky had stayed home and started attending parties thrown by the mob. At one of these soirees, an influential mobster who Ricky chose not to name entrusted him with an errand. It was a heavy alligator-skin briefcase with a gold handle and a combination lock, to be delivered to a man in the cloak room. Unfortunately for Ricky, his curiosity and nose for money got the better of him; the briefcase never made it to the intended recipient. In a secluded area outside the hotel where the party was being held, Ricky jimmied the lock, intending to skim a little off the top of whatever was inside. The briefcase opened, and he got a glimpse of fat stacks of green before a shadowy figure emerged from nowhere and hit him on the head. When Ricky woke up, the briefcase was gone, and the mobster had his thumbs in a vise. Ultimately they were able to come to an understanding: Ricky would generously not be chopped up into tiny pieces and served as hors d'oeuvres for the vultures, on the condition that he retrieved the briefcase and all of its contents within the year. 

Tinsley mulled over the story for a few silent minutes, his jaw working as he chewed on his fourth sandwich. Lying was like breathing to Ricky, so it was impossible to tell if he was fudging details or holding anything back. “Did you recognize the guy who whacked you?” he said eventually. “I gotta tell him he’s my new hero and ask for his autograph.” 

“Nah. Didn’t really see him that well.” Ricky smoothed the hair at the back of his head, almost reflexively. “Just caught a shape, out of the corner of my eye. I think … he was big. And wearing a dark suit.”

“Big, huh? You sure he wasn’t just normal height?”

“For the last time, I’m not short! You’re just freakishly tall!”

Tinsley fished a piece of watercress from his teeth. So they weren’t going to get anywhere trying to track down the thief - at least, not based on that description. The briefcase, on the other hand, was more promising. He stood up and patted himself down to brush off the crumbs. “I’m gonna go back to my office and make some calls. Let you know what I turn up. But frankly, I’m not optimistic.”

Ricky nodded and gestured towards the open doors of the hotel. A waiter approached and started clearing away the sandwiches. “Stick around a few minutes. I’ll have the chauffeur drive you back.” He reached into the jacket of his suit and produced a checkbook and a pen, scribbled a signature, and ripped off the top check and handed it to the waiter.

When they were alone again, Tinsley scowled. He’d suspected as much. “Is this where we’re at now? Are you really committing fraud right in front of me?”

Ricky started to slip the checkbook back into his jacket, looking up at Tinsley with an innocent expression. “These are real.”

Tinsley lunged across the table and grabbed the checkbook, flipping it open amid Ricky’s protests. “Now this is just lazy. You didn’t even change the routing number from the last batch.” He tsked and shook his head, ripping the flimsy book of fake checks into quarters and scattering them over the railing. “I thought you were a professional.”

“Oh, great work, bonehead!” Ricky said hotly, shooting up from his chair. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?! I already told you I’m out of cash!”

Tinsley shrugged. “Not my problem. Maybe sell the Gatsby suit, for starters.”

“You son of a bitch…” Ricky seethed. His hand went to his hip, and Tinsley remembered too late the set of highly ornate and collectible jackknives Ricky was famous for keeping in various places around his person. But instead it was a bare fist that flew over the table like a shot, cracking him right on the nose.

Tinsley stumbled back, his hands reaching for his face. He could feel blood, but he didn't think his nose was broken. Ricky stood on the other side of the table, his eyes wide with rage.

Tinsley rolled up his sleeves and cracked his neck. "Alright, bucko," he muttered, spitting out a drop of blood that had found its way into his mouth and limbering up his noodle arms. "Let's dance."

* * *

“Fuck you.”

Tinsley bit back a retort, sliding the phone receiver onto his shoulder and scribbling in a yellow legal pad. The young lady on the other end of the line was very polite and helpful, especially considering how difficult it probably was to understand a man with a nose full of cotton over the wire. “Three oh six… Got it. Thank you. Yeah. You have a good evening, too.” He hung up the phone.

"Fuck you," Ricky said again, with feeling. He was sitting in a disheveled heap on the couch in the front office, holding a small bag of ice to his right eye. He was in his shirtsleeves, the pink suit jacket having been ruined in their scuffle. He ran his tongue over a bright red gash in his lower lip. "I told you not to touch the face!"

Tinsley stared. A bandage was stuck over the bridge of his nose, and wads of gauze poked out from his nostrils. Trails of blood had dried on his chin, making him look like a sloppy vampire. "You punched me in the nose!"

"Yeah, well, you pissed me off. And honestly, for you, it's an improvement." Ricky pulled the ice away, revealing a purple bruise at the outer corner of his eye. It really wasn't that bad. Tinsley had done it with his elbow, by accident.

Ricky, on the other hand, had known just where to hit and had not, apparently, been concerned about sportsmanship. Tinsley was sure at least one of his ribs was bruised, and that he would never be able to cross his legs again. And now they were both banned forever from the Altamont Hotel.

Tinsley pulled the gauze out of his nostrils and scraped bits of dried blood off his upper lip with his fingernail. "Did you get it out of your system? If this is gonna keep happening I'll dump you on your ass in a heartbeat, Sodder kids or no."

Ricky waved a hand in the air. "Yeah, sure. Scout's honor." He paused for a moment, his mouth a tight line. "...Okay. I'll admit I got a little too hot there for a minute. Sorry."

"Fine." Tinsley looked down at the legal pad in front of him. He wasn't sure why, after all that, he was still working this case. Obviously he was insane. “Your briefcase is in New York City, by the way.”

Ricky perked up. “Really? How'd you figure that out?”

"Made some calls. The thief crossed the country by rail. Luckily for you gold and alligator skin are pretty distinctive, and railroad company employees have good memories. Last stop was Grand Central Station." Tinsley yawned; it was starting to get late. “We can drive up there in the morning.”

Ricky made a face. "I saw your auto outside. It's shit. You really expect me to squish myself into that tiny green box with you for _eight hours_?"

Tinsley, rather than reply, got up and closed the door to the front office, muffling Ricky's whingeing and reducing him to a fuzzy shadow on the other side of the frosted glass. He sank back into his desk chair and gingerly held his hands over his eyes. "What the hell am I doing?" he murmured. It didn't really seem to matter; whatever it was, he was doing it anyway.

Within ten minutes, he was asleep.

* * *

The next afternoon, behind the bar at Mike’s, TJ was polishing glasses. “Sure, I remember him. Japanese fella with a big mustache. Hard to forget.”

The stranger had an impressive mustache himself, along with a full beard peppered with grey. He stroked it absently as he talked, his voice carrying a distinctly Western drawl. It matched his black Stetson hat perfectly. “You know where I could find him?”

TJ narrowed his eyes suspiciously. In response, the stranger reached into his duster and flashed a badge. “U.S. Marshal. I want a few words with ‘im, that’s all.”

TJ’s mouth went dry. “...He was with C.C. Tinsley,” he said. “Private eye from across the street. I saw them get in Tinsley’s car and drive off a few hours ago.”

“What type of car was it? Which way’d they go?”

“Dark green Chevrolet. They got on the highway, going east.”

The stranger took a moment to process this, then tipped his hat. “Thank you kindly,” he said, sauntering out of the bar. A few minutes later, TJ heard the revving of an engine and the squeal of tires on the road. A big black Ford tore past, roaring towards the highway.

TJ let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in.

* * *

"You're out of your goddamned mind."

"I'm just saying that you'd think somebody would have found the plane!"

"No, you're saying that you think Amelia Earhart was kidnapped out of the sky by little green men from Mars!"

"I never said they were green," Ricky snapped. "And it's just a theory. Can you definitively say it didn't happen?"

Tinsley tried to keep his eyes on the road. He never should have let Ricky strike up a conversation. Sure, the tense silence had initially been oppressive, but breaking it wasn't worth this. 

Ricky, in saying the trip would take eight hours, had in fact severely overestimated Tinsley's Chevy. It had taken them five hours just to get to Maryland, where smoke had begun pouring out from under the hood as soon as they crossed the state line. Another hour was lost by the side of the road while Ricky kicked the hubcaps and Tinsley tried to find the right parts of the engine to jiggle, and though they'd made good time since then the sky was growing dark. 

Tinsley stared blearily through the windshield as a tiny town flicked past, the street lamps leaving spots of light in his eyes. They'd been the only car on the road for the past few miles, and the silence and darkening sky, greenish with an impending storm, made him feel strangely on edge. It eventually registered that the eerie atmosphere was starting to spook him, so he shut the feeling down. Turning off his fear receptors was a skill he'd had to learn, but by now it had become almost second nature.

After a few more miles of dark woods, a hotel appeared on his left. Tinsley nodded towards it. "We'll stop here."

"Finally." Ricky squirmed in the seat next to him. The Chevy was small and had ensured that the two men had been pressed up against each other for the entire trip. "You are nothing but bones."

Tinsley rolled his eyes and cut the ignition, and they both stepped out of the car.

The hotel was a two-story building with peeling white paint. It had probably been a nice house in the last century, but had clearly gone downhill since then. A sign out front advertised vacancy and hot showers for five dollars a night. Tinsley broke into an exhausted grin. "Ahhh, hot showers… I could definitely use one of those."

Ricky huffed. "Yeah, you smell like ass." The remark seemed to lack the sarcastic bite Tinsley had come to expect from him, though. Standing there with his arms folded, Ricky looked oddly tense.

Tinsley cocked his head. "Everything okay? This isn't some secret mob headquarters or anything, is it?"

"Don't be stupid. It's just an old building in the middle of nowhere." Ricky kicked at the gravel, his face briefly screwed up in something like a grimace. Then he swept past Tinsley and headed for the hotel's front door.

Tinsley blinked. Bit weird. Something had the con man scared. He stood there for a few moments more, then shrugged and followed Ricky into the hotel. He supposed he'd find out what it was soon enough.

* * *

This hotel was definitely haunted.

Ricky stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, wrapping his fingers around the ivory handle of Suky, his best knife. No doubt about it. The building in front of him was the most haunted-looking thing he'd ever seen.

Before this whole mess, Ricky had never been anywhere east of the Mississippi, nor stayed long in any town with a population of less than a thousand. The ancient house set into the bleak silent woods was the stuff of horror films. Part of him almost hadn't believed such places were real, until now. 

The hotel didn't look much better from the inside, either. Bare wooden floorboards creaked under Ricky's shoes as he walked into the foyer, a dim square room decorated with faded paintings and a few pieces of worn Victorian furniture. The light from the ceiling lamps didn't reach the corners, and to Ricky, the air crackled with an oppressive energy. He clenched his jaw, turning towards the empty front desk. A small silver bell sat on its surface. He walked over and gave it a ring.

Nothing happened for a few moments. Then there was the sound of footsteps thumping down stairs, and presently a heavy-set woman with a head of greying curls appeared behind the desk. "Good evening. How can I help…" She faltered when she saw him.

Ricky smiled at her reassuringly, wondering how many post-war years it would take for white people to stop assuming he was an enemy spy, or whatever stupid shit it was that went through their heads in moments like this. ...Although, to be fair to the old lady, it could have been just his bruised eye and busted lip this time. He'd told that idiot not to touch his face. "Evening, ma'am," he said, his voice low and smooth as butter. He touched the brim of his hat and leaned casually over the desk. "Two of your best rooms, please."

A tinge of red appeared on the woman's cheeks. Ricky raised his eyebrows slightly, allowing just the very edge of his tongue to run along his lips. That was quick. He supposed old ladies were always in need of better husbands. Probably wasn't much selection in a place like this, anyway.

The woman smoothed the front of her dress. "I- I'm sorry, sir, but we've only got just the one room left. The whole first floor is being renovated…"

Ricky pouted, his eyes straying to Tinsley, who had just wandered in through the front door. "Oh… You know, I hate to impose, but…" He lowered his voice. "My friend here is just impossible to share a bed with. Are you sure we can't come to some kind of… arrangement?"

The woman bit her lip, looking at Ricky with wide eyes. "Ah… well…"

* * *

Ricky flopped spread-eagle onto the king-sized mattress, a sigh escaping him as his limbs sank into the soft down. "Not bad," he purred, wriggling a pillow underneath his head and kicking off his shoes.

Tinsley stood just inside the door to the room, a collapsible cot under his arm. "He who pays the bill should get the bed," he said dourly.

"Hey, I got you a discount." Ricky closed his eyes and stretched. After that long, horrible car ride, he would stab Tinsley in the heart before he gave up this mattress. "Besides, I have sensitive skin."

Tinsley stared at him for a few moments, but he looked too tired to be truly angry. He unfolded the cot, threw his jacket onto it, and started loosening his tie. "I'll have first go at the shower, then."

"Fine by me." Ricky rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow so he wouldn't have to watch the detective undress. These weren't the finest sheets he'd ever laid on, but the bed was soft and he'd had a long day. He started to drift off, a contented smile on his face. He'd even forgotten about how haunted this place probably was.

… 

… 

Ricky's eyes cracked open. "...Shit," he muttered.

* * *

The rest of the night found Ricky drifting restlessly in and out of sleep. Outside, the wind was picking up, causing the rotting shutters to groan and tree branches to scratch against the window. The first crack of thunder sent Ricky jolting awake, wide eyes darting around the room. Suky was in his hand before he realized it, the blade flashing in the dark. He sat motionless, waiting for his breathing to slow. 

He heard a rustling, and a metallic scraping noise. Then, a voice, moaning, as if in pain.

Ricky swiveled his head around frantically, his eyes finally starting to adjust to the dark. The noise was coming from _inside the room-_

He stopped. The cot on the floor was shaking.

Ricky folded up the knife and quietly leaned over the side of the bed. Tinsley's bedraggled hair poked out from under a blanket, which writhed as he tossed in his sleep. A kick lifted the blanket and exposed his hands, white in the darkness, trembling like leaves. The detective groaned and turned towards the bed. Drops of sweat gleamed on his brow. "Nngh… ghh… no… no… nngghh…"

Ricky watched him silently in the darkness, possessed by some dreadful fascination. Another crash of thunder made Tinsley cry out, and the blanket flew off the cot. The detective's thin body writhed, trapped in whatever horrors lived inside himself. 

Ricky watched for a few moments more. Then he carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded across the wood floor. This man had tried to have him arrested more times than he could count, had in fact succeeded at least once, and here he was, totally vulnerable. Completely at his mercy. Ricky's mouth smiled, because he felt he ought to enjoy this, but for some reason his heart wasn't in it. Maybe the idea of ghosts was getting to him.

He picked up the blanket and laid it over Tinsley. His hand landed on a shoulder, and he let it rest there for a moment, feeling the warmth of the other man's skin. Then he drew it away, frowning and rubbing his palm. "...What a goddamned racket," he murmured, turning his head. The rustling slowed, and the floor creaked…

Ricky froze. ...Outside the room. That had sounded like… footsteps. His mouth went dry. "Shit…" he muttered weakly. 

Against his better judgment, he slowly opened the door and peered out into the hall. The old wood-paneled corridor suddenly seemed to stretch away into forever. He heard another creak, and whirled around. He thought he saw movement in the shadows, there at the end of the hall. The wind whistled through cracks in the walls in a ghostly wail. Ricky felt like his heart was beating out of his chest. "Are… Are there any spirits here?" he whispered, his eyes wide as saucers.

At the end of the hall, three large forms stepped out of the shadows. Two of them were big men in black suits, their expressions hostile. The third was a tall man with a rugged face and a grey beard, dressed in a black duster and a Stetson hat. White teeth flashed as he grinned. "Ricky Goldsworth, I presume?"

Ricky blinked. Then his shoulders sagged, and he began to laugh.

The man in the Stetson paused for a moment while Ricky cackled. "Horace McClintock, U.S. Marshals Service," he said eventually. "Most folks call me Banjo. I'll have to ask you to come with these fine gentlemen here."

Ricky wheezed, nearly doubling over. _"Banjo?!"_ he gasped, tears of laughter forming in his eyes.

"Eeyup," the man said, looking nonplussed. "Now what, may I ask, is so funny?"

"You're not a ghost," Ricky wheezed. "Just some cop!" He straightened up, grinned, and put his hands in his pockets. His fingers closed around Suky's ivory handle. "Now I feel silly," he said. There was a wild gleam in his eyes. 

It seemed like he'd gotten all worked up over nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter contains scenes of gun and knife violence, as well as a PTSD flashback involving naval combat.

The world around Tinsley roared with noise and light. Shells whistled through the air, booming like thunder as they exploded into the sea, sending up geysers of boiling water. A group of men ran past him, their shouts muffled by the soot-stained white fire resistant hoods that covered their faces. A loud crackling noise filled the air like static. Tinsley turned his face upwards.

The towering superstructure of the USS _Chevalier_ was ablaze. 

Flames exploded from the windows of the bridge, and a thick cloud of acrid smoke curled towards the sky, where the Japanese planes droned. Every once in a while a metal nose would poke through the black cloud, and a rain of bullets would fall on the deck, pinging through the steel and sending up sparks. Somewhere below, men screamed. 

Tinsley stood on the main deck near the foc'sle, his ears ringing. Something hot was running down his face, and his hands stung. He smelled burnt flesh. He tried to turn and go below, but the ship shuddered as a shell tore through the hull, sending him falling to his knees.

A white-hooded figure came running up to him, grabbing him by the shoulders. It was shouting something at him, but the words came to him slowly, and distorted. "...ey... hey... Hey, buddy! You deaf? It's abandon ship!"

"No…" Tinsley murmured, too weak to resist the man as he pulled him to his feet. "No, no, I can't, they're all still… below…" 

The man's eyes, the only part of him that was visible under the hood, squinted at him through the smoke. "It's no use, kid, the air lock's closed! They're dead already! Come on, the ship's going down!"

The man dragged him across the deck to a petty officer who was directing wounded sailors into a lifeboat. Tinsley was jostled inside, and the boat cast off, slowly pulling away from the blazing ship. Through the haze of smoke, he could see her stern sinking slowly into the blackened sea. Men jumped over the side, only to be torn to pieces as a hail of bullets from overhead sprayed into the water. The ship groaned and strained, a horrible metallic death rattle, and the bow began to rise into the air. Tinsley's vision swam.

A hand rested on his shoulder. It was heavy, and soft, and _real_. As the warmth of it melted into him, the chaos around him began to fade away into a comforting blackness. The vision was gone, and he was enveloped in silence. For a moment, he felt safe.

Then he heard a gunshot.

Tinsley startled awake with a gasp, limbs flailing out from underneath the blanket. It took him a moment to catch his breath, and to remember where he was - the hotel room. Not the Pacific. He groaned, rubbing his eyes. He'd had another fit.

He looked up towards the bed to see if Ricky had heard, but it was empty. He stood up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Muffled noises were coming from outside the door. "Goldsworth…? What's goin' on out there?"

Glass shattered, and he heard the sound of three gunshots. "...Well that's not good," Tinsley muttered, snapping fully awake. He threw on his rumpled jacket and grasped for the revolver that was still in its pocket, then sprinted to the door and threw it open.

In the hall stood a large man in a black suit. Something had sliced through his arm, leaving a bright red gash. He saw Tinsley and turned towards him, raising a pistol. 

Tinsley's arm shot out and cracked him on the head with the butt of his revolver. The man crumpled like a paper doll, and the gun fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Tinsley stood still for a moment, catching his breath. The rest of the hallway was empty. "Sorry about that," he said to the prone form of the man in black. He picked up the man's gun and shoved it into the waist of his trousers, then headed for the stairs.

When he reached the first floor, broken glass crunched under his shoes. He paused. There was a thick canvas curtain dividing the rest of the first floor from the foyer; Tinsley remembered the proprietress saying that the area was undergoing renovations. In the dim light, he could see drops of blood on the canvas. Revolver at the ready, he ducked through the curtain.

On the other side were the shattered remains of a glass divider, opening into what looked like a dining area, with tables and chairs draped in canvas. Standing inside the room were two more men in black, and one tall man in a Stetson hat. They all had their backs to Tinsley, and they all had guns.

And staring down the barrels of those guns was Ricky, a jackknife in his hand and blood on his face, grinning like a maniac.

The man in the Stetson took a step towards Ricky. "Now, there was no reason you couldn’t’ve come along peacefully."

Ricky didn't seem intimidated despite being clearly cornered, his back to the far wall. His jacket was torn, indicating that he'd been the one to crash through the glass. He brandished the bloody knife. "You need to get some sturdier goons, Banjo."

"Where's the briefcase, Ricky?" the man said, taking another step forward. "Tell me where you've got it, and I won't give you any more trouble."

This seemed to throw Ricky. "...I _don't_ got it," he said eventually. "But I can get it for you."

Banjo thought for a moment, then heaved a sigh. "Is that so? That's a shame." He pointed his Colt pistol at Ricky's head. "In that case, might be better to just tie up loose ends…" 

Before he could even think about what he was doing, Tinsley raised his revolver. "Hey, assholes! Pick on someone your own size!" he shouted, and shot Banjo in the foot.

Banjo howled a curse, and the two men in black whirled around, startled. The element of surprise gave Tinsley just enough time to duck behind the thick wooden base of the glass divider before their bullets whistled over his head. One of them let out a gurgling scream, and Tinsley stole a peek over the barrier just in time to see Ricky finish slashing the man's throat and dart away through a door to his right, towards the direction of the foyer.

Banjo grimaced. "After him!" he shouted to the remaining goon, who sprinted to follow Ricky. Banjo then turned and started limping towards Tinsley, firing a shot into the barrier. The bullet sent splinters of wood flying, a few of them sticking painfully into his face. "Come on out, detective," Banjo called out, slowly gaining speed. "C.C. Tinsley, was it? I don't think you quite know what you've gotten yourself into." He shot into the wood a second time, nicking Tinsley's ear. "Come on out, now. I'll say your piece went off by accident, and you can be on your way."

Tinsley grimaced. He'd just have to go for it. He sprang to his feet and sprinted for the foyer, a shot perforating the curtain just above his shoulder as he ran. 

He made it to the hotel's front door, which had been left swinging open. Just outside, the man who'd gone after Ricky was curled up on the ground, blood seeping out from between his fingers as he clutched at his stomach. There was an ivory-handled jackknife lodged there. Tinsley pulled it out and glanced frantically around the packed dirt parking lot, his gaze eventually landing on the Chevy.

Ricky was hot-wiring it. The instant Tinsley spotted him, the engine roared to life, and Ricky grabbed the wheel and put his foot on the gas. Filled suddenly with desperation, Tinsley sprinted across the lot, waving his arms. "Hey! Hey, wait up!"

The Chevy roared onto the road, and Tinsley's heart sank. He should have known Ricky would abandon him at the first sign of trouble.

Then, with its tires squealing, the Chevy made a U-turn back onto the lot, bearing down towards Tinsley. Ricky kicked the passenger's side door open, not even bothering to stop. "Get in, idiot!" he shouted.

Tinsley did his best to jump into the moving car, his right foot dragging on the ground as he struggled to stuff himself inside. He could see Banjo in the rearview mirror as Ricky pulled away from the hotel, and a shot pinged off the roof. Then another one cracked through the rear windshield. "C'mon, baby," Tinsley muttered, rubbing his palm on the dashboard. The Chevy sputtered and rattled, and Ricky swore, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. A third shot punched through the windshield, knocking off Ricky's hat.

Then they were off, the Chevy roaring down the wooded road. Behind them, the tiny figure of Banjo faded from view. Tinsley could breathe again. 

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. His right ear stung where Banjo had nicked it, and he could feel blood dripping down the side of his head. He popped open the glove box and pulled out the first-aid kit, clumsily slapping a pad of gauze over the wet little groove in the outer edge of his ear cartilage and taping it there. That accomplished, he started picking splinters out of his cheek. He glanced over at Ricky. "You okay? Still in one piece?"

Ricky's eyes were focused on the road. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "Just a few scratches." His hair was tousled, and there were a number of small cuts on his hands. He was silent for a few moments, then he laughed. "That went to shit real quick."

Tinsley laughed with him. It was a relief. "Yeah, I guess so."

"At least it wasn't ghosts."

"What?"

"What?"

They lapsed into silence again. Tinsley picked up Ricky's hat from the floor, putting his finger through the bullet hole in the top. "Thanks for coming back for me," he said.

Ricky grabbed the hat back and stuffed it onto his head. "Run faster next time," he said.

Tinsley reached into his pocket and pulled out the ivory-handled jackknife. The blade was still slick with blood. He wiped it off on his sleeve, then slid it into Ricky's coat. 

Ricky turned to look at him, surprise and something almost approaching gratefulness in his expression. "You picked up Suky."

Tinsley frowned. "You named your knives?"

"Yeah. Suky, Jenny, Lotte, and Tawdry. I don't use Tawdry too often, though, she likes to misbehave."

"...You sound like a serial killer."

"I don't kill people." 

"You did today."

Ricky looked away. "I don't kill _people_ ," he said. "Those were just government suits. And besides, I had to. They would've killed me."

 _You seemed to be enjoying it anyway,_ Tinsley thought, but decided not to belabor the point. "Was that Banjo McClintock?" he asked.

Ricky raised an eyebrow. "That's what he said. You know him?"

"Everybody does. He's a law enforcement legend. Let’s just say a certain junior claims investigator used to have a newspaper photo of him taped up at his desk." Tinsley turned to face forward, his eyes widening with realization. "...Holy shit," he muttered. "I shot Banjo McClintock."

Ricky choked back a laugh. "Nice."

Tinsley glared at him. Now that he'd had a minute to think, there were some things that weren't adding up. "Why was a U.S. Marshal after you, Goldsworth?" he said slowly. 

Ricky avoided his gaze. "Beats me."

Tinsley shook his head. "You're slimy, sure, but far as I know you've never been 'dangerous fugitive' material. What exactly did you get yourself mixed up in?" He paused. "There's more than money in that briefcase, isn't there?"

Ricky's expression hardened. "I don't know," he said.

Tinsley slapped the dashboard. He was suddenly angry. "Come on!" he shouted. "You hired me! Why can't you just square with me for once? I… I shot a cop, Ricky! I just threw my goddamned life away for you!"

They were still alone on the road. The Chevy slowed, and rolled to a stop.

"I never asked you to do that," Ricky mumbled, staring straight ahead.

"It doesn't matter. It happened." Tinsley grabbed him by the shoulders. "Look at me," he said. "I'm in this now, like it or not. All I'm asking for is the truth."

They stared at each other. Ricky's eyes were wide. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

Tinsley's grip on Ricky's shoulders was turning his knuckles white. "Do you really know anything about the Sodder kids?" he asked.

Ricky's chest rose and fell. He held Tinsley's gaze, his dark eyes shining in the streetlights. "No," he said quietly.

Tinsley let out a long breath. "What's in the briefcase?"

Ricky sat in silence for a long time. A few isolated drops fell onto the roof of the car. Within minutes, it was raining. Water leaked into the interior through the holes in the windshield. Finally, Ricky closed his eyes. "Blackmail," he said. "It's full of blackmail material."

Tinsley let go of Ricky's shoulders. "On who? The mob, or the government?"

"...Yes."

"Did you see any of it? How high does this thing go?"

"All the way to the top."

"Jesus." Tinsley rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. "Why did you lie to me?"

"I needed your help," Ricky said. "And I needed to make sure you'd help me."

"Why me, then? LA is lousy with detectives. Why'd you come all the way out to West Virginia just to knock on my door?"

For the first time, Ricky looked small. "...I didn't have anywhere else to go," he said quietly. He gave a half-hearted smile. "How's that for irony, huh?"

The two men sat silently as the rain poured down on the roof of the car. There was something almost peaceful about it, like a release. Eventually, though, the rain started to abate. Ahead, where the road met the horizon, the sky was slowly growing lighter, and the streetlights winked out one by one.

Finally, Tinsley sighed. "Switch seats with me," he said, opening the car door and pulling his keys from his pocket. "Let's go to New York."


	4. Chapter 4

At around ten in the morning, Henry the porter sought out Grand Central Station's most competent customer service representative, a bemused expression on his face. "Miss Holly! There's a couple of fellas on Platform Three askin' about some stolen luggage."

Holly Horsely put down her pen, briefly adjusting her platinum-blonde curls. Despite the fervent scribbling, she wasn't actually busy at the moment; just penning a murder mystery on company time. "Oh? Is there a problem with them?"

Henry shrugged. "They seemed kinda funny to me, is all."

Funny they were, indeed. One was a man of average height with slick black hair and a perfectly curled handlebar mustache, dressed in a very fine heather grey suit and kid gloves and looking quite put out. The other was a bedraggled beanpole with bandages on his ear and nose, wearing an off-the-rack navy pinstripe and a crumpled hat and looking like he'd just been run over by a truck. Holly pursed her lips. "What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?"

The beanpole approached her, hunching his shoulders and casting nervous glances back at his companion. "Uh, hello miss. My employer here," he motioned to the other man, "Mr. Goldsworth, was hoping you'd be able to help him recover a certain briefcase…" He flashed a private detective's license, which Holly noted was from West Virginia. _Whatever the story here is_ , she thought, _it better be good._

The story she got was something long and rambling about a robbery in Poughkeepsie and a briefcase containing a top-secret business merger agreement, whose recovery was therefore essential and extremely time-sensitive. Apparently the thief had boarded New York Central train 306 and gotten off at this station. "...So, I was wondering," the detective said, "if any of the station employees saw anything, or if I could take a look at any passenger logs you may have…"

Holly raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't help you there."

The shorter man cleared his throat sharply and showed the gangly detective a gold wristwatch. The detective gulped. "But miss, this is - this is Mr. Richard Goldsworth." When he was met with a blank stare, he looked surprised, even a little offended. "You _have_ heard of Mr. Goldsworth. Why, he's only the most preeminent businessman on the East Coast!"

"What's his business?"

The detective blinked. "Uhh… stock… options?"

"What seems to be the delay, Tingles?" the apparent Mr. Goldsworth snapped, giving the detective a sharp look.

'Tingles' wilted. "Please, miss, I _can't_ allow Mr. Goldsworth to become upset," he begged, in a voice just above a whisper. "Please… it'll be my job… I- I have a wife, and three kids! Beautiful baby boys..."

Holly frowned as the man continued to ramble. She didn't believe this story one bit. The detective was just a six-foot-plus ham. But there _was_ something genuine about the pleading look in his eyes, and he did seem to have a valid detective's license. She sighed.

* * *

Ricky rolled his eyes, shaking his head despondently as they walked out of the station. "Next time I'll have to insist you let me do _all_ the talking. What do you think this is, community theater?"

Tinsley blinked. "What? I thought that went well! Besides, you're the one who called me 'Tingles.'"

"You deserved it," Ricky said, laughing a little. "Your acting was a farce. And you won't tell me your goddamn name anyway, so excuse me for improvising." 

Tinsley glanced briefly up at the tops of the tall buildings that surrounded him. He could see the Empire State rising above the skyline, its peak seeming to pierce the very clouds. "Well, Miss Horsely was kind enough to direct us to the railroad company anyhow." And, much as he might not want to admit it, putting on that whole routine with Ricky had been really fun.

It was a brisk sunny spring day, and New York City was alive with activity. Cars rolled down the street in bumper-to-bumper traffic, accompanied by a choir of honking and shouting and a choking cloud of exhaust. On the sidewalks, people from all walks of life jostled past each other as newsies ran underfoot and street vendors with thick accents hawked everything from hot dogs to "hot" designer handbags. Ricky spread his arms and whirled around, soaking it all in with a grin. "Finally, some good old urban jungle," he said. Like a tiger treading a familiar forest path, he was back in his natural element. "Beautiful. You ever been to the Big Apple, Tins?"

"Never," Tinsley admitted, eyeing the crowds. If someone decided to start following them, it would be difficult to tell. 

"Neither have I," said Ricky, palming a packet of roasted peanuts from a vendor's tray with a movement so smooth it was almost totally imperceptible. "Well, okay, I _was_ born here, but I don't remember any of it, so it doesn't count." When they were a safe distance away, he pulled out the small paper bag and started popping peanuts into his mouth. "If I wasn't running for my life I'd say we should see the sights. I've always wanted to go to Coney Island…"

Tinsley briefly made eye contact with a man in the crowd, who immediately turned away. The man was dressed in a double-breasted charcoal overcoat, and had both his hands in its pockets. The pockets bulged a little too much for Tinsley's liking. He was starting to get a bad feeling. "Focus more on the 'running for your life' thing, okay? Maybe don't talk so loud."

"Oh, let's not get too drastic," Ricky said flippantly and loudly. He changed his tone though when he noticed Tinsley's expression. "Is something up?"

"There’s a guy trailing behind us," Tinsley said, his voice low and his eyes darting around the crowd. "Pretty sure he's packing heat." He grimaced as a heavy-set man in a black coat peeled out from a doorway and started walking alongside them about ten feet away, his hands similarly in his pockets. "Shit. Make that two guys…"

"I'll take care of them," Ricky said, smiling darkly.

Tinsley edged away from him reflexively. That was a murderous expression if he'd ever seen one. "What? No! In broad daylight? Are you nuts? We gotta lose 'em."

Ricky put away the knives Tinsley hadn’t even seen him draw. "You're no fun."

Both of the gunmen started to pick up speed. Tinsley grabbed Ricky by the wrist and pulled him across the street through the slow-moving traffic, car horns sounding as they went. The gunmen were still following them, but the move had gained Tinsley and Ricky a little distance. Tinsley scanned the buildings lining the street, looking for any avenue of escape. There were two police officers at the corner, but obviously Ricky wouldn't be getting any help from there. Whatever Tinsley did, he had to time it right...

Their pursuers were walking together down the sidewalk behind them now, jostling a newspaper boy out of the way and moving at a near jog. It was probably safe to assume that they knew they'd been made. They were too close now to lose by simply turning onto a side street or ducking through a door, and Tinsley knew he was too tall to disappear into any crowds. He was starting to panic.

Tinsley felt a squeeze on his wrist. "Let go of my hand," Ricky said.

Tinsley hadn’t realized he’d been holding on to Ricky's wrist this whole time. The con man's skin was surprisingly warm. Despite himself, Tinsley started to blush.

He let go and sheepishly stuffed his hand in his pocket, still scanning the doorways for possible exits. "Got any ideas on how to get out of here?" he muttered, then turned to find Ricky vanished. "Ricky?!" he hissed, whirling around. The two gunmen were almost on top of him now. "Ricky! C'mon, this isn't funny!"

A few moments passed with Tinsley frozen on the sidewalk, completely unsure of what to do. The two men walked steadily towards him, hostile expressions on their faces. They were close enough now for Tinsley to see that the one in the black coat had a long, thin scar running down his right cheek. And the one in grey looked… familiar. Tinsley blinked. Where had he seen that face before…?

Suddenly, there was a high-pitched wail, and an angry shout. "Hey! Police! Those two jerks hit my kid and stole his peanuts!"

The two gunmen paused. One of them withdrew his hand from his pocket and seemed surprised to find a bag of roasted peanuts inside. 

The crowd stalled and gathered in a rough circle around the two men. New Yorkers were unable to resist gawking when someone was causing a scene. Tinsley could now see Ricky, bent over a crying little boy, an expression of righteous fury on his face. "Look at what you did to Timmy!" he shouted accusingly. "It's his birthday!"

Meanwhile, the two cops on the corner had taken notice of the situation and were approaching the crowd. The two gunmen looked at them, then back at Ricky, then at the growing circle of onlookers. Now there were too many witnesses. The man in black snarled. "C'mon," he said to the man in grey. Then they both turned and pushed through the crowd, barreling off in the opposite direction. "Hey!" one of the cops shouted, drawing his baton and sprinting into the crowd, sending the people scattering. "Stop! Police!"

In the hubbub, Ricky slipped away unnoticed, little "Timmy" in tow. It was the newsie Tinsley had noticed earlier. Ricky tossed him a quarter, and the boy disappeared into the crowd. 

In response to Tinsley's stare, Ricky simply shrugged, a smug grin on his face. "We better hoof it," he said. "Don't really wanna be here when those cops come back and start asking questions."

"I… uh… yeah, sure. Right." Tinsley gave the block another once-over. There was a department store on the corner where the cops had been standing. "You feel up to a shopping trip?"

Ricky laughed. "On whose dime, yours?"

Tinsley scowled and grabbed him by the wrist again, dragging him into the store.

* * *

It was the glitziest department store Tinsley had ever seen. The walls and ceilings were bright white, the countertops clear as crystal, and brasswork on the countertops and stairwells had been polished until it shone like gold. Tinsley dragged Ricky up to the second floor, which was a forest of expensive fur coats and racks of glittering jewelry. This was probably far enough removed from the street for them to be safe for a while and catch their breath. 

Tinsley found a bench in the corner near a display of gold earrings and slumped down onto it, stretching out his legs. "Did you know those guys?" he asked. 

Ricky shook his head, idly spinning the turnstile on which the earrings were displayed. "No. I don't think they were the LA set. It may surprise you to learn that there are mob families in New York, too."

Tinsley took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, not even bothering to respond to Ricky's sarcasm. "One of them looked familiar," he said. "But I can't place him…"

"Suspect in a case, maybe?"

"My work in Gauley Bridge did not involve the New York mob on any sort of regular basis."

"Then you must have seen his face in the paper." Ricky stopped spinning the turnstile and put his hands in his pockets. "If you see him again you can ask him about it. Personally I'd like to get back to finding that briefcase."

"...True, but I think we ought to lay low for a bit," Tinsley said. God, he was so tired. "I don't know if we'll be so lucky the next time we run into those guys."

"Fine." Ricky raised an eyebrow. "I suppose a room at the Ritz is out of the question?"

Tinsley stood up from the bench, about to respond, when a man in a light grey coat and hat materialized behind Ricky and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sir," he asked in an even, friendly voice. "Are you going to pay for those?"

Ricky turned around with a start. "I don't know what you mean," he said, a warning note in his voice.

The man smiled. He wore a pair of huge round wire-rimmed spectacles, and a light cream scarf hung around his neck. "Sorry to intrude. My name's Stephanos; I'm the head of loss prevention here at Sallie's."

Tinsley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ricky, whatever it is, give it back."

Ricky gave a tight smile and produced six pairs of earrings from his pockets. "I was just testing you," he said. "To see how observant you were."

"Of course," Stephanos said agreeably, replacing the earrings on the turnstile. "I hope my observational skills have been to your satisfaction. But if you don't plan on buying anything, I'll have to ask you to leave, please."

"Wait, j- uh, look, before you kick us out," Tinsley said, pulling out his P.I.'s license, "could we talk for a minute? One dick to another."

Stephanos squinted at the license, looking slightly puzzled. "Uh… sure, I guess." He pointed to Ricky. "I'm not letting him out of my sight, though."

"That's fair." Tinsley ignored Ricky's quiet seething and leaned in close to Stephanos. "I'm sorry about him," he said. "We just shook off some mob goons who were trying to kill him, so I think he's a little on edge."

Stephanos blinked. "Oh… I did hear that commotion outside. You must have run into some Lucianos; we're close to their territory." He seemed truly concerned, which was comforting. "You look like you've had it pretty rough. Should I call the police?"

"No," Tinsley said, emphatically. "Well, it's complicated. But we just need to hide out in here for a few minutes. I don't think the street's safe yet." When Stephanos frowned, Tinsley wrung his hands. "We'll ... buy a shirt or something. And I promise I'll pay if Ricky swipes anything. Just send me a bill for the missing inventory. Here, I'll give you my card."

Stephanos turned Tinsley's rumpled business card over in his hands. "C.C. Tinsley," he read, then gave a little quirk of his eyebrow, shrugged, and slipped the card into his breast pocket. "I'll hold you to that," he said. "Just don't disturb the customers." 

"Thanks," Tinsley said, then gripped Ricky by the shoulder and settled them both down onto the bench. He leaned back and pulled his hat brim over his eyes. Maybe while they were here he could catch a few winks...

* * *

Stephanos came back to check on them after an hour or so. Ricky had behaved himself, though he'd spent the time with his arms folded and a dark look on his face. Acting vaguely menacing seemed to be his way of sulking like a little baby. 

"I'm sure it's safe outside by now," Stephanos said. He held up a thin olive pullover. "I think this would suit you, C.C., if you're still offering to buy something." He scrunched up his nose. "Honestly… you could use a whole new suit. You smell musty."

"Been rained on all night," Tinsley said wearily, taking the sweater without daring to check the price tag. No one called him C.C., but something prevented him from correcting the store detective.

Stephanos looked concerned again. "Do you two have a place?" He scratched the back of his head. "Sorry if I'm butting in too much here. But for some reason, I've just been feeling led to help you guys."

Ricky gave Tinsley a side glance, as if to say that they were looking at a certified nut job. Tinsley, however, knew what was going on here; there was a church on every street corner in Gauley Bridge. Though he'd never been a big believer in the G-man, he knew most of the code words. "By the Holy Ghost?" he asked.

Stephanos smiled, a little sheepishly. "Maybe. I don't know. Maybe it's just a feeling." He reached into his coat, produced a small notebook, and began jotting something down. "Anyway, I have a friend who runs a hotel on North 9th Street. She's very discreet." He ripped off the top page of the notebook and handed it to Tinsley. It had an address written on it, along with a smiley face and a note to ask for Maizey. "In case you need a place to hide."

Tinsley thanked Stefphanos, took the note, and stashed it in his pocket. He stopped at the cash register on the first floor to buy the olive pullover, and then he and Ricky were back on the sidewalk.

Ricky frowned, kicking a chipped piece of concrete. "I don't like that guy," he said. "I don't like him, I don't trust him."

Tinsley rolled his eyes. "Of course you don't like him, he caught you in the act. You hate that."

"It's not that!" Ricky protested hotly. "He's too nice! Why would this wacko want to help two total strangers without anything in it for him?"

"You've got a point," Tinsley said, "but I think he may just be a nice person. If nothing else, I'm usually a pretty good judge of character." He pulled the note from his jacket. "Anyway, it couldn't hurt to check this place out."

Ricky turned away with a scowl. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you." For a moment, his tone became deeply bitter. "There’s no such thing as just a nice person."

* * *

Meanwhile, in a diner about five blocks away, a man in a black jacket and a man in a grey overcoat were sitting in the back corner booth, picking at a platter of rubbery fish.

The man in black frowned. "That Goldsworth is a slippery son of a bitch. Thought for sure we had him." He scratched at the scar on his cheek. "But who the hell was that tall guy he was with?"

The man in grey chewed on a chunk of fish. "I think I seen him before," he said. He thought about it for a moment, then slammed his hand down on the table. "Yeah! He's that detective guy!"

The man in black blinked. “Detective? Is he police?”

“No, he’s a private dick,” the man in grey said, picking a scale from between his teeth. “I just had a run-in with him in West Virginia. Asked me a few questions. Luckily, nothin’ came of it.” He smirked. “Oh, he knew I was involved, for sure, but he couldn’t make anything stick. It was a clean job. What a feeling.”

“Wait…” The man in black leaned forward slightly. “Was this the thing where you dressed up as an insurance salesman?”

“Yeah.” The man in grey leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. His face at first seemed nondescript, which was an ideal quality for his line of work. It made him easy to forget. But his eyes were dark and unusually cruel, and he had a mouth like a gash that seemed just slightly too wide for his face. “It was that thing with the Sodder kids,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stephanos is the Steven Lim counterpart in this AU. Name lifted from SD&D&D, of course. Suggestions for a first name are welcome.
> 
> Also, starting with this chapter my resistance to the siren song of using the slang word "dick" to refer to detectives in this story has officially broken. I'm so sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

The address on the note from Stephanos did lead them to a hotel, and not to an empty lot or abandoned dockside warehouse full of bear traps as Ricky had theorized it would. It was a pleasant-looking building with a white-washed brick face and a striped burgundy and aubergine awning, located in a quiet side street near an open-air Italian market. A sign above the awning identified it as the Hotel Dagaccia.

It had actually been a fairly short cab ride from the department store to the hotel. When they arrived, it was early evening, but there was still more than enough light to see by and the streetlights hadn't turned on yet. Tinsley had asked the driver to drop them off in front of the Italian market; he was suddenly hungry, not really having eaten much in the past few days, and there were meats hanging in those shop windows that made him slobber like a hound dog. While he waited for his footlong hoagie with extra, extra pastrami, Ricky seemed content to pace among the stalls, hopefully not stealing anything. He did legally purchase a pair of cannoli after Tinsley caught him ogling a woman in front of the pastry stand. 

Or at least that's what it had seemed like he was doing at the time. The sudden appearance of the attractive dame in the black dress and pumps, a black pill box hat on her head and a brown paper bag under her arm, had caused Ricky to stop dead in his tracks. Tinsley had been standing behind him and couldn't see the expression on his face, but 'sultry' would be too weak a word for the look the woman was throwing back at him. When Tinsley ribbed him about it, though, Ricky seemed to get angry, and tried to brush the whole thing off before stomping away to stand in line for the sweets. Ultimately Tinsley decided to chalk it up to stress and leave it alone.

The two of them shared a mostly silent dinner at one of the market's outdoor tables, then packed up and crossed the street to enter the hotel lobby. The place looked nice, in an earnest kind of way. It definitely wasn't the Ritz, but there was something charming about the cream walls, soft burgundy furniture and pile carpet, and corners stuffed with real plants in terracotta pots.

There were two young women behind the front desk. One was short, with a soft round face and bright green eyes, wearing a mint sweater pulled over a modest dress. The other was taller, with long yellow hair swept back by a green rolled-up bandanna. She was wearing a light tan button-down shirt and a pair of olive slacks, and she had her hand resting on the small of the other woman's back when Ricky and Tinsley walked in. She kept it there, allowing the gesture to take on implications, her eyes seeming to dare one of them to comment on it.

Tinsley, for his part, could never understand why society found it necessary to be morally outraged by this sort of thing. Let people mash lips with whoever they wanted to, for christ's sake. Though at least now he knew why Stephanos had said this place was discreet. Such relationships were technically illegal, so the two proprietors probably weren't huge fans of the fuzz.

Tinsley pulled the crumpled note from his jacket as he approached the counter and tipped his hat. "Afternoon. Is one of you Miss Maizey?"

"That'd be me," said the taller woman, stepping away from her companion and leaning over the counter. The shorter woman immediately joined her with a little bouncing step. "And I'm Jebra! Welcome to the Hotel Dagaccia! How can we help you?"

"Yeah, uh, I'd like to get a room for me and my friend," Tinsley said, tossing his head towards Ricky. "For a couple nights; I don't know how long we'll be in town. Stephanos sent us," he added. Ricky seemed to be looking at him weirdly. He shrugged it off.

"Oh, you know Stephanos?" Maizey straightened up. "Well, then I guess you're okay." She tapped the open guest book. "Just give us your John Hancock and I'll get you a key. Rooms are seven dollars a night."

"That includes breakfast in the mornings!" Jebra added. 

Tinsley signed the book, and in return was given a small brass key for Room 312. After thanking Maizey and Jebra for the warm welcome, he and Ricky walked down a short hallway to a set of elevators. 

While they waited, Ricky glanced up at Tinsley, his hands in his pockets. "So, uh… are we friends?" he asked. 

Tinsley blinked. "...Huh?"

"Well, you know," Ricky said, "just now, you called me your friend. You've never done that before." He laughed a little. "I mean, you just said that to say something, right?"

"Uh…" Tinsley scratched his head. He had called Ricky his friend, hadn't he? He'd said it offhand. Obviously there was no meaning behind it. Goldsworth was acting weird, though; had been since they got here. "We're not friends."

"No. We're definitely not."

"I mean, I don't even like you as a person. You're morally depraved."

"True. And I don't like you, either, for the record. Your personal hygiene habits are repulsive." Ricky tipped the brim of his hat, hiding his eyes. "Just funny that you told that lady we were friends, then. Stupid thing to say."

Tinsley could feel some type of emotion radiating off the other man, but he had no idea what it was. Disappointment? Relief? Confusion? "...I said it because 'loathsome criminal who I've been suckered into hiding from the mob' would've taken too long," he said, a little snappishly. He waved a hand in the space between the two of them. "You're so smart, what would you call this?"

Ricky glanced up at him with raised eyebrows. "Partners in crime," he said as the elevator doors opened, stepping inside with a smile. "You know, on account of all the crimes we do."

"I don't do crimes!"

"Aiding and abetting, amigo. And you shot Banjo McClintock in the foot."

"Shit." Tinsley grimaced. "Okay, fine. But primarily I _solve_ crimes."

"Solve crimes? Where? You don't solve shit!" Ricky said, poking him on the chest.

"I solve them!" Tinsley insisted with a laugh. God, he really was the worst detective in the world, wasn't he? "...I don't know if I like 'partners'... it's too, I don't know, too close?"

Ricky just shrugged. "I don't think so," he said, a little quietly.

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out into a close hallway lit by warm yellow lamps. Tinsley swung the room key between his thin fingers. "Crime pals," he said. 

Ricky stopped at the entrance to Room 312, twirling his mustache. "Crime pals," he repeated. "I do like that."

"Rolls off the tongue."

"Yeah, it's pretty good."

"Makes us sound like a couple'a cool hep cats."

"Do not say 'hep cats' ever again or I will break your fucking knees."

"Jesus, okay."

Tinsley jingled the key in the lock and swung open the door. The room was of modest size, but it was clean and well-lit. In the center of the left-hand wall was a large bed, with a small nightstand on either side. Two windows at the end of the room offered a spectacular view of the alley behind the hotel, complete with fire escape. There was a small pink-tiled bathroom through a door on the right, and a set of drawers and a wooden desk with a black rotary phone. Tinsley flopped onto the left side of the bed, kicking off his shoes and letting his hat fall over his face. The soft mattress was practically heaven.

He felt the bed sink as Ricky climbed onto the other side. He realized that he hadn't bothered to ask for separate rooms this time around, and realized further that Ricky hadn't tried to make him sleep on the floor. Funny, that. When Ricky Goldsworth had first walked into his office you couldn't have paid Tinsley to touch him with a ten foot pole. Now, not only did he not seem to mind Ricky's presence so close to his side, but it felt almost natural.

That thought should have scared him far more than it did. The man next to him had killed two people less than a day ago. And even after all this time, who knew what his true intentions were? The logical part of Tinsley's brain was running around ringing every alarm bell it had… but to no avail. He supposed he was just too tired to be sensible. He knocked the hat off his head and sat up briefly to take off his jacket and tie before flopping back onto the bed. 

This was alright for now, he thought as he started to drift off. After all, they were crime pals.

* * *

The man in black and the man in grey had been stationed outside a mob-owned warehouse overlooking an East River dockyard. The man in grey was having a smoke. He dropped the cigarette on the pavement and reached into his coat pockets when a big black Ford pulled up in front of the warehouse doors. 

The man in black walked up to the car and tapped on its tinted driver's side window. "Hey, this is private property," he said.

The window rolled down, and Banjo McClintock grinned up at him. "We-ell, if it isn't Rolando 'Night Night' Di Nelli. You know there's a federal warrant out for your arrest?"

Di Nelli whipped a gun out of his pocket, but found himself staring down the barrel of a massive Colt revolver. The lawman had beaten him to the draw. Banjo held open his free hand. "You've got the wrong idea, now. I ain't here to bring in small fry like you. So put away the pea shooter." He raised his voice. "And that goes for you, too, Mister Giacone."

The man in grey was standing on the other side of the car, a pistol in each hand. Di Nelli looked at him over the roof of the car. "...Put 'em away, Legs," he said.

"That's better." Banjo leaned over the car window. "Now, go and tell your boss Lucky that the feds would like to propose a temporary truce."

Di Nelli blinked. "What?"

"I believe it would be advantageous to pool our resources," Banjo said, "with regards to a certain missing briefcase." He lowered his voice. "Your boss and mine would both be very upset if the contents of that case were ever to see the light of day. Now, I may have the full force of the law on my side, but your organization has tentacles in places the law can't reach. And we both want the same thing."

Di Nelli looked at him with suspicion. "Keep talkin', old man."

Banjo grinned. "I think it would behoove you and your boss to consider that I am authorized to negotiate however I see fit in this particular case. Who knows? Outstanding federal warrants and charges for tax evasion do sometimes … go away."

Di Nelli paused. "I'll inform Mr. Luciano," he said eventually.

"Good, good," Banjo said, finally lowering the Colt. "Now, while we're having this friendly conversation…" He leaned over the window. "Would either of you boys have happened to run into two fellas by the name of Ricky Goldsworth and C.C. Tinsley?"

* * *

It had been the summer of 1932 when they'd first met.

The sun had been blistering down on LA through a cloudless sky, and Ricky Goldsworth had spent the previous night sloshing heavy cans of gasoline around a three-story townhouse. That afternoon he was hot and tired, sweating through his suit and standing close enough to the ashes of the building to feel the heat from the still-simmering embers. _That_ was why his heart stopped when a tall young man with a light brown comb-over approached him, holding a large cup of water in his hand. Not because the man had his suit jacket slung over his shoulder and his shirtsleeves rolled up, his skinny but surprisingly defined arms glistening with sweat… 

…No. Aside from his exceptional stature, the man was in actuality about as milquetoast as they came. Clean-cut, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, the works. His long face and drooping eyes made him resemble a giraffe, or a very tall basset hound. And his cheeks were tinged red with sunburn, so he probably wasn't a local, or at least hadn't been living in California for very long.

"Afternoon," the man said, extending the glass of water to Ricky. "Man, it's a scorcher out today. ...Oh, sorry if that's in bad taste, given the, uhh… Anyway, I thought you could use one of these. You're Mr. Goldsworth, right?"

Ricky nodded, sipping at the water and trying to look vaguely shell-shocked. "Yeah, that's me."

The tall man held out his hand for Ricky to shake. "My name's C.C. Tinsley, I'm with the Buzz's Feed Farmers' Insurance Company." He pulled a small spiral notebook and a pen out of his back pocket. "I just need a quick statement from you about what happened so we can get everything squared away with your claim."

Ricky nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. This was his first time doing a house, and though he knew he looked like a shaken, exhausted victim on the outside, his blood was pumping with adrenaline. He explained the whole terrible accident - how he'd gone out for a pack of cigarettes only to return and discover his home and all his possessions ablaze. He'd tried to save what he could, but he'd barely escaped with his life.

Tinsley seemed convinced, nodding occasionally as he scribbled in his little notebook. Ricky had picked one of the hottest nights of the summer for a reason. A fire in LA during a record-breaking July was nothing for any insurance claims investigator to be surprised about. It took everything Ricky had in him to keep from grinning. _Five thousand dollars, here I come…_

"Well, that should about cover it," Tinsley said eventually, closing the notebook. "Someone will be in touch with you in a few days to-"

A grey-haired man in a frumpy suit appeared and tapped Tinsley on the shoulder. It was the fire marshal. "I'll have my official report sent to your company's offices by tomorrow," he said.

"Oh, so soon? That's great, thank you!" Tinsley said, wiping his brow and smiling. "Well, that was an easy first case."

"Yeah, it's cut and dry," the fire marshal said. "Clearly arson. Gas everywhere, real sloppy job. You can read about it tomorrow."

The fire marshal walked away, leaving Tinsley to stare at Ricky. Ricky was silent for a while, trying to process this. He waited too long. "...A- Arson?" he muttered weakly. "Who… Who on earth would do such a thing?"

Tinsley glared at him. There had been something in those eyes ten years ago that made Ricky feel for the first time in his life that he might be caught. It had set his poor heart racing. "It seems like..." Tinsley had said, in an even, almost deadpan tone, "maybe _you_ would do such a thing."

Ricky still remembered the thrill of the accusation. As they said, you never forgot your first.

It was nearing midnight back in the present, and Ricky was sitting on the hotel room windowsill, reminiscing while he watched Tinsley sleep. There were no groans or spasms tonight; the detective was out cold. Perfect for his current purposes, but it also seemed like he would need that big detective brain running on a full tank if they were ever gonna find that godforsaken briefcase.

Seeing Tinsley lying there in his shirt and suspenders was what had reminded Ricky of the old days, when the detective wasn't so scruffy. He almost missed the intricate games of cat-and-mouse that they used to play, with him always staying one step ahead, a step just short enough to make him feel that thrill again and again. But then the bombs fell on Pearl Harbor and the war had ended the game for both of them.

Ricky frowned. Thinking about it had soured his mood. Better do what he had to do and get it over with.

He opened the window and slipped soundlessly out onto the fire escape. Instead of risking the creaking metal stairs, he hopped over the railing and slid down the structure like it was a fireman's pole. His shoes hit the ground with a soft thump, and he turned around to face the alleyway.

Across the street a shadow moved, then coalesced into the form of Francesca Norris. She was still wearing the all-black ensemble she'd had on when he saw her earlier at the market, complete with dangerous smile. "Hello Ricky," she said, flicking a cigarette into her mouth and lighting up. 

In his pocket, Ricky rubbed his thumb along Suky's handle. "What are you doing here?"

Francesca blew out a cloud of smoke. "Jack sent me to check up on you. Make sure you didn’t try to cut and run."

Ricky snarled. "LA to New York is a hell of a long way to send a babysitter."

"Jack would also rather not have the briefcase fall into Luciano's hands," Francesca said, and smiled again. "I was supposed to help you out if I could. But - curious! - it seems the position's already been filled." Her grey eyes glinted cold in the pale moonlight. "Jack did warn you not to involve anyone else."

"Why don't you just go back to LA and tell Dragna not to worry his fat head about it?" Ricky snapped. "The detective doesn't know anything. Information-wise, he's been a net loss. He actually thought I was checking you out."

Francesca laughed. It was a harsh, ringing sound. "In that case, he really doesn't know anything at all, does he?" She took another drag on her cigarette. Her expression was stony. "Still, it's too much."

Ricky was silent for a moment. "I'll take care of him," he said slowly. "As soon as I get the briefcase. That's all I need him for."

Francesca gave a satisfied 'hm.' Then there was a flash, and Ricky flicked open Suky and brought the knife up close to his face. He just barely managed to deflect the dagger that came flying through the air before it stuck his ear to the wall. She'd thrown him a softball. Ricky smirked. "You're in a good mood tonight, huh? You got a date?"

Francesca returned the expression. The LA mob had sent her because she was probably the only person in the world quicker with a knife than Ricky Goldsworth. "You may think you have something on Jack," she said. "Before you go doing anything rash, just remember what we have on you." 

Ricky's eyes went wide with suppressed rage. He gripped the knife in his hand. "...You're a long way from home, little girl," he said, his voice a low threatening growl. "I could kill you right now. Put a nice red necklace on that pretty throat."

Another thin dagger appeared in Francesca's hand. "You're welcome to try, dear. It would save me a lot of trouble if you did."

The two stared at each other in silence, flashing their teeth like sharks circling in a black ocean. Eventually, Francesca tipped her head. "You have a nice evening, Ricky." Her message delivered, she stepped back into the shadows, her heels clacking on the pavement as she strode away.

Ricky watched the alley for a few minutes more. Apart from the New York City background noise, the night was silent. He let out a deep breath, then took out a cigarette of his own. He smoked it for a while, until his fingers stopped shaking, then ground it out under his heel, shimmied up the fire escape, and slipped back into the hotel room. He looked over at Tinsley; still sleeping like a rock, exactly where he'd left him. 

He crossed the room to the wooden desk and picked up the phone. "Hello, operator? I'd like to place a long-distance call. Los Angeles."

He waited for the call to connect, then waited while the phone on the other end of the line rang. Eventually, it picked up. Ricky let out a soft sigh of relief. "Hi Ma," he murmured. "Sorry to call so late. Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

He settled down onto the surface of the desk while his mother talked. "Yeah, I had to go to New York," he said, in response to the inquiry into his whereabouts. "It's still the same case, though. It's a big one. Might take me a while to crack it." He twirled the phone line around his finger. "I've actually teamed up with another detective. He knows the area a little better. So you don't have to worry." 

They engaged in small talk for a while before his mother said she had to hang up - it was nearing eleven back in LA. Ricky nodded and started to say his goodbyes. "And if you see any strange men in black suits hanging around the house, you call the cops straight away, you hear? ... I don't care if they're selling Hoovers, ma! I mean it! The cops! … Okay … Okay … I love you too. … Yeah. Good night."

He hung up the phone, then turned towards the bed and froze. Tinsley was sitting up, his back against the headboard, watching him. The tall man scratched his beard. "Your mother thinks you're a detective? That's cute. Not a good way to keep her from being disappointed in you, though. You shoulda said you joined the circus." 

Ricky scowled at him. Damn. When had he woken up? "It's rude to eavesdrop," he said.

"Hm, yeah, sorry." Tinsley yawned, stretching his long noodle arms out over his head. "So, uh, why'd you sneak out?"

Double damn. "Just went for a smoke."

"Through the window?"

"Quicker than taking the elevator." Ricky got up off the desk and walked over to the bed. "I was being considerate! I could've smoked in here but I know you don't like it. Next time I won't bother if I'm gonna be grilled like this." He sat down on the bed next to Tinsley, leaning over towards him. "What, you need evidence? Wanna smell my breath?"

"Fine, fine!" Tinsley threw up his hands. "Sorry I asked."

Ricky leaned back against the headboard with a huff. "Go back to sleep, you big lug."

"Copy that." Tinsley yawned again, then wriggled down under the sheets. His feet poked out comically over the edge of the bed. "You should get your beauty rest, too, y'know," he muttered, rolling onto his side. "Those bags under your eyes ain't healthy..."

Ricky pressed his fingertips under his eyes self-consciously. He was about to retort, but when he looked over Tinsley was out again. He sighed, sinking under the sheets. The damned fool was making this hard on him. He could feel the warmth of the detective's body next to him, and he drifted off to visions of LA summer days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the real-life Lucky Luciano was deported to Italy in 1946 (the same year this story takes place), but I'm choosing to ignore that. He's really only mentioned in this fic.
> 
> Also I realize the Tinsworth aspect of this has been an extremely slow burn so far, but we’re gradually getting there. Thanks for your patience.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Tinsley woke to the sound of a phone ringing. "Mmrghh," he mumbled, blinking away the sleep and starting to roll out of bed. As he moved, he felt something heavy slide across his back. He stood up and looked down at the bed. 

Ricky's outstretched arm was lying across the space where Tinsley had just been. 

The rest of Ricky still dozed, his face buried in a pillow. Tinsley blinked. Had that arm been draped over him the whole night…?

The phone continued to ring, mercifully derailing that train of thought. Tinsley stretched his stiff legs and picked the receiver up off the hook. "M'hello?"

"Good morning!" chirped a feminine voice. "It's me, Jebra! Just wanted to give you your wake-up call and let you know that breakfast is being served in the dining room on the first floor."

"Oh, okay," Tinsley said, finally coming fully awake. He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was a few minutes past eight-thirty. "Thanks. We'll be down in a few."

Ricky stirred, groaning and twisting the sheets. He sat up and blinked at Tinsley. His mustache had been smothered out of shape by the pillow and now looked remarkably like what happened to mustaches in cartoons when a bomb went off in the wearer’s face. Tinsley snorted with laughter, covering his mouth. “Morning, Yosemite Sam,” he wheezed.

Ricky scowled, his fingers going to his mustache automatically. “Fuck you. What is it?”

“Breakfast. Get dressed.”

Ricky only nodded, slinking to the bathroom and muttering something about needing to get the wax first.

When they got to the dining room on the first floor, Stephanos was there, waving at them from a corner table. "Hey, C.C.! Hey, shoplifter! It's me, Stephanos! We met yesterday!"

"Yeah, I remember," Tinsley said, scooping himself some eggs and grabbing a banana nut muffin before sitting down at the table. 

Ricky followed suit, taking only an apple. He rubbed it on his sleeve and bit into it savagely, watching Stephanos with undisguised scorn. "My _name's_ Ricky."

"Ohh," Stephanos said, ignoring him and looking at Tinsley with wide eyes. "You're wearing the sweater!"

He was. Tinsley was painfully aware of that now. "It is pretty comfy," he said, tugging a little self-consciously at the v-neck. He'd donned the pullover in a desperate bid to let gravity straighten out his rumpled jacket, but it clashed with his wrinkled shirt and tie. It also clung a little too tightly to his skinny frame for his liking.

He could feel Ricky's eyes on him. "You should try wearing clean clothes more often," the con man said. He himself was dressed in yet another immaculate suit Tinsley had never seen before; this one was a middling shade of blue-grey and had peaked lapels with thin white piping. "You look sharp."

Tinsley blinked. A slight breeze ruffled his untouched bed-head. "I do?" he said incredulously.

In response, Ricky only put the apple down and tipped his hat over his eyes. "...Hey, why are you here, anyway?" he said to Stephanos. "This is a hotel. Don't you live in New York?"

Stephanos smiled. "Oh, I do. But this place is on my way to work. And Jebra makes the best breakfast crepes in the city!" He motioned to his plate, which contained three fluffy semi-circles topped with drizzled chocolate and strawberries. "I come here almost every morning. I am a little bit of what you would call a food enthusiast. In exchange I bring in special ingredients and stuff like that." He picked up a fork and knife and started carving the crepes. "So, how are you guys holding up? I hope you didn’t have any more problems last night..."

"Nope," Tinsley said, stealing a side glance at Ricky. "Slept like a baby."

* * *

Stephanos was still finishing his crepes when C.C. stood up from the table. "Thanks for the tip about this place, by the way," the tall detective said, reaching over the table to shake his hand.

"Sure thing, don't mention it," Stephanos replied, smiling. "Will I see you guys here again tomorrow?"

"Eh, sure. We'll probably live that long." C.C. turned to Ricky the shoplifter and motioned towards the elevators. "I want to check out the railroad company's passenger logs today, but I gotta grab my notebook first."

"That's fine," Ricky said, wiping his mouth on a napkin. "I'll be up in a minute."

As soon as the tall man was gone, Ricky leaned over the table towards Stephanos. There was something almost threatening in his dark gaze. Stephanos looked at him with blank bemusement. "...Yes?"

Ricky frowned. His demeanor probably wasn't having its intended effect. "You're a department store dick," he said. "Do you know anything about custom luggage?"

"What do you mean?"

Ricky lowered his voice. "I need someone to make me an alligator-skin briefcase, exactly to my specifications." He slipped Stephanos a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "Do you know anyone who could do that for me?"

Stephanos took the money, intending to slip it back into Ricky's pocket when he wasn't paying attention, or something like that. He didn't take bribes on principle, but he didn't want to cause a scene or embarrass the man, either. "Yeah, actually. Sallie's has a supplier in Brighton Beach that does all of our high-end luggage. I'll give you the shop's address."

"Thanks," Ricky said, watching Stephanos as he scribbled the shop's information on a nearby napkin. 

Stephanos slipped the twenty into the napkin's folds before handing it up to him. "No problem. And listen…" His expression became serious. "I know you don't trust me. I probably shouldn't trust you either, but… Well, whatever it is you're dealing with, I'll help if I can. Just let me know."

Ricky seemed to consider the offer. "I'll only ask you for one more favor," he said. "Don't tell the big guy about this."

Stephanos pinched his fingers and moved them in a line across his lips like he was closing a zipper.

Ricky grinned. "Maybe you're not so bad, Stef. I'll see you around."

“Be seeing you,” Stephanos said with a little wave, watching as the man turned on his heel and strode off towards the elevators. Whatever was going on with these guys, it was clear that they were in some deep doo-doo, especially after that strange conversation. And Stephanos’ day job could get a little dull. Besides a desire to be helpful, he also had to admit that he possessed a certain amount of morbid curiosity.

In any case, he knew he’d be back again for crepes tomorrow.

* * *

Tinsley sat, long limbs folded awkwardly, in a small wire chair in the reception room at the New York Central Railroad Company's head office. He had come alone; Ricky, for whatever reason, had insisted on staying behind at the hotel, and the blade of his knife had made it pretty clear he didn't intend on suffering any argument about it.

Though Tinsley had pointed out that splitting up while they were both essentially in hiding was a monumentally stupid idea, he had to confess that he appreciated the break from Ricky. The fact that he'd slept so well with Ricky draped over him and the fact that it had almost certainly been Ricky's hand on his shoulder that had pulled him out of his last fit were starting to get dangerously close to adding up to something in his mind, and he was sure that whatever it was he wouldn't like it. 

So at least for today he was back to sleuthing on his own. This sort of thing - schlepping around town, talking to people, and digging through records - was all his job usually entailed. It did feel good to return to normalcy, even for a little bit.

"Mr. Tinsley?" A young woman met him at the reception desk and handed him a binder filled with hundreds of pages. "These are our passenger logs for the 306 train for the week you were asking about," she said. "You can look at them, but we do ask that you not take anything out of the building."

Tinsley thanked her and sat back down in the wire chair, flipping the book open on his lap. The receptionist at the desk kept shooting him dirty looks, but she was gonna have to get used to him real quick. By the look of things, he was gonna be here a while.

He sat there for a few hours, running his finger down the names listed on each page. Unfortunately it seemed like Central only kept track of checked bags, so there would be no notes about any peculiar briefcases. By the time he got to the logs from the day the thief was supposed to have arrived in New York, he no longer had any idea what he was looking for. All he could do was hope like hell he'd know what it was when he…

Tinsley blinked, his finger coming to rest on one name. ...Found it. His eyes widened with realization. "No way," he breathed. "That was him…?" 

It couldn't be that easy, could it? It certainly was one hell of a coincidence… 

Tinsley slammed the binder shut and handed it off to the receptionist, who'd been so startled by his sudden movement that she'd spilled a mug of tea all over herself. "Sorry about that," Tinsley muttered, dashing out the door. If he was being honest with himself, the case up until this point had felt like a snipe hunt - going off of nothing and finding even less. But hell... this could really _be_ something.

He may have finally found a place to start. He needed to go back and tell Ricky.

* * *

When Tinsley returned to the Hotel Dagaccia, he found Ricky in the lobby, apparently pleading with an unmoved Maizey. She had a huge double-barreled shotgun on her hip. "There is only one copy of that room key, and I am not going to make another one," she said. "The next time you lock yourself out you should come to the front desk like a reasonable human being, instead of trying to scale the building and jimmy the window in broad fucking daylight."

"Yeah, well, the shotgun wasn't necessary!" Ricky said, eyeing the weapon.

"I have a right to protect my property, mister," Maizey said, hefting it over her shoulder. "Next time don't look like a burglar."

"Ricky?" Tinsley jogged across the lobby to stand over him. "What the hell did you do?"

Ricky gave a pouting frown. "You had the room key. I got locked out."

"How? I thought you were going to stay in the room!"

"I needed a smoke."

"You can't pull that one on me twice!" Tinsley took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, looking up at the ceiling frustratedly. Wherever Ricky had snuck out to, he didn't want to know. "Never mind. Do you know anybody named Frankie Giacone?"

"No," Ricky said, suddenly serious. "Why, what'd you find out?"

"He's one of those two guys that were following us yesterday," Tinsley said. "I knew I recognized him from somewhere; seeing the name was what made it click. He was involved in the Sodder case. He threatened George Sodder before the house burned down."

"Great, but what does that have to do with finding my briefcase?"

"Giacone took the 306 Central train from Fayetteville back to New York City _on the same day_ your briefcase was spotted at Grand Central Station. And he and his friend in black were tailing us as soon as we started poking our noses around that place. That may be a coincidence, but…" Tinsley rubbed the back of his head. "...I don't know. I've got a real funny feeling about this. And I trust my gut. He's involved somehow, in any case, and the way I see it we can only gain by talking to him."

"Huh…" Ricky said, processing the news. "For once, you may just be onto something…!" He smiled, that wild, dangerous expression returning to his face. "Giacone, huh? I'm sure he'll sing when I'm through with him. How do we track him down?"

Tinsley scratched his beard. "Yeah, that's the hard part. I'm not exactly 'in' with the mob around here. Maybe you could stand in the street with a big sign that says 'I'm Ricky Goldsworth, come kill me'...?"

Ricky scowled. "Oh, yeah, sure. Real funny, pal-"

"Hey. Shut up for a second."

Tinsley hadn't spoken. He and Ricky both whirled around at the same time, and it was only then that he realized: he'd been so caught up in his discovery that he'd had the entire conversation right in front of Maizey. She was still standing there.

Ricky seemed to realize the same thing at the same time. "...Balls," he muttered.

Maizey brought the shotgun down off her shoulder, leveling it at both of them. At this range, with a piece the size of that one, the crime scene guys would have to scrape them off the walls if she decided to fire. "Just so you fellas know," she said evenly, "I don't mind a little shady stuff. People come to this place to disappear for a while, though usually for different reasons than whatever yours are. Just give it to me straight. Are you mafia?"

Ricky looked like he was gearing up to spin her a yarn, so Tinsley decided he'd better speak first. This was a situation that required the truth. "No. I'm a private detective, and he's my client. He got involved in something he shouldn't have, and now he needs to make it right before he gets whacked."

Maizey's sharp blue eyes bored into him. "And you're going after Legs - err, Giacone - as part of that?"

There was no use trying to deny it. "Yeah, that's right."

Maizey glared at him and Ricky for a few moments more. Then she straightened and put the shotgun back over her shoulder. "I know where you can find him," she said. "I can get you in, too. You just have to promise me you'll tear the nasty son-of-a-bitch a new one."

Tinsley glanced over at Ricky, who grinned and tipped his hat. "It'd be my pleasure," the con man said.

Tinsley didn't like the way he'd said it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little short and filler-y... The next one is going to be very eventful and could get quite long, so I thought this would be the best place to break.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Gun and knife violence, some period-typical homophobia.

By around nine in the evening, Tinsley and Ricky were walking through Greenwich Village, following Maizey and Jebra through a maze of sidewalks and back alleyways. Tinsley glanced around constantly as they went; his revolver was in his jacket pocket, and the pistol he'd pulled off of Banjo's henchman was hidden in the waist of his trousers. He knew Ricky was similarly armed to the teeth, and he could have sworn he'd seen Maizey slip a pair of brass knuckles into the pocket of her slacks. Jebra had brought along a flowery green handbag and her signature winning smile.

Tinsley leaned forward to whisper over Maizey's shoulder. "Hey, uh, is it really okay for Miss Jebra to come along? This Giacone could be a dangerous fella. I don't want to put her in any danger…"

Maizey didn't bother turning around to answer him. "I can protect her, don't worry. She's here to make us look less suspicious."

Tinsley wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but he decided not to pry. The night was a dark one, and he felt tense with anticipation.

Walking around a corner, Tinsley's gaze landed on a shadowy figure. It was a man in a disheveled suit several sizes too big for him. His eyes met Tinsley's, and he took a step forward. "Hey," he said. "You cats looking to have a fun night?"

"We don't want anything," Tinsley said, shoving his hands in his pockets and picking up his pace.

"You sure?" the man said, starting to follow him. He pulled a small paper packet no bigger than a quarter out of his pocket. "I've got reefers, smack-"

Tinsley suddenly stopped and grabbed the man by the lapels, throwing him up against the wall. He took the packet and opened it, revealing the white powder inside. His breath caught in his throat, and his fingers twitched. God damn it… he still _wanted_ it. He tossed the packet of powder to the ground and gave the man another shove. "I told you to buzz off!" he snapped, and drew his revolver. "Get out of here!"

The man complied, scurrying off into the shadows. Tinsley returned the gun to his pocket and closed his eyes, trying to calm his jangled nerves. When he opened them, he saw Ricky staring at him.

"Everything alright over there, Tins?" Ricky asked, his expression unreadable.

Tinsley frowned and looked away. "Just some dope fiend," he muttered. "C'mon. We're gonna lose Maizey and Jebra."

Ricky fell back into step beside him, and didn't say anything more about it. Tinsley was sure he wouldn't forget it, though.

Eventually the group arrived at an unassuming door set into the front of a dark brick building. "This is it," Maizey said, opening the door to reveal a set of descending stairs. "Just follow my lead. And try to act natural."

At the end of the stairs was another door. This one had been painted with an image of a well-dressed young man holding a barber's razor. Maizey knocked on the door five times, in what seemed to be a specific pattern. A panel in the door slid open, and a pair of eyes looked out at her and the rest of the group before it slid shut again. Then the door swung open, and Maizey led them inside.

The room on the other side of the door was large, with a low tin ceiling, tiled floors, and dim amber lights. Smoke hung in the air, most of it coming from the patrons seated at the bar that ran along the right-hand wall. At the far end of the room was a small stage, where a swing band was playing Glenn Miller. There were a few booths and tables along the walls; the rest of the space was taken up by a massive open dance floor. And the whole club was crowded with people. 

Tinsley looked around, his senses initially a bit overwhelmed. At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary dance club. There were couples everywhere, twirling each other around on the floor and engaging in heavy petting in the corner booths. On closer inspection, however, the couples were almost exclusively … men. Men dancing, laughing, kissing each other… Occasionally a pair of women would appear on the floor or at the tables, many of them wearing trousers. Well-dressed men sat at the bar smoking and buying each other drinks, while a small group of queens in glittering dresses lounged in the corner, chatting amongst themselves.

Tinsley blinked, then turned to Maizey. She glared at him before he could say anything. "This is the Razor Club," she said. "It's funded by the mob." She looked away. "Nobody's happy about it, but that's the way it has to be. It's impossible for places like this to go legitimate when their entire customer base could be arrested at any time."

Ah. "So… this particular place is funded by Frankie Giacone?"

"Not by him, he's just an underling. It's the Luciano family that foots the bills." Maizey shrugged. "That's my understanding, anyway. I don't know a lot about it, really; I'm just friends with the manager. Giacone comes by once a week to check on profits and harass the patrons. Real piece of shit. He tried to feel Jebra up once. Told her she just needed to get with a real man." She gritted her teeth, shook her head, and continued. "Based on his usual schedule he should be here tonight."

Tinsley scanned the crowds; it was impossible to tell if Giacone was among them just from standing here. "Guess we'll have to do some looking around…"

"That's the idea." Maizey allowed a beaming Jebra to grab her by the hand and drag her onto the dance floor. "You kids have fun," she called as she went. "Give us a shout when you're ready to scram."

And just like that, they were on their own. Tinsley looked over at Ricky. "...Did you catch all that?"

"Yeah, of course." Ricky grinned up at him. It was a look of absolutely fiendish delight. "Guess we better blend in."

...Oh. _Ohhh_. Oh no. No. No way. Had it been any other man he wouldn't have minded… but this was Ricky fucking Goldsworth. Tinsley sputtered. "A- Actually, it might be quicker if we split up-"

"Didn’t you say this morning that going out on our own would be dangerous?" Ricky purred.

"Yeah, well, you didn't listen to me anyway so-"

"Shut up, Tins." Ricky held up a gloved hand. "Looks like you're my beau for the night. Dance with me."

Ricky's tone brooked no disagreement. Before Tinsley could really even register what he was doing, he took the offered hand and let the shorter man lead him out onto the dance floor. Soon they were in the middle of the crowd, bodies pressed around them and the music of the band, now a searingly fast rendition of 'Sing, Sing, Sing,' blaring in their ears. Tinsley raised his voice. "I'm a terrible dancer!"

"Just shake your chicken legs!" Ricky shouted back, holding his hand in a vise-like grip as he attempted to drag him into a flat-footed Lindy hop. He yelped when Tinsley stepped on his shoe. "Jesus! You learn that at the USO?"

"I did warn you," Tinsley said, laughing a little. He twisted his hips aimlessly, watching Ricky's feet. The con man wasn't exactly Fred Astaire, either, but he danced with an infectious energy. He swung in and out with the beat, each time coming in a little closer. Despite himself, Tinsley was smiling, and he could see that Ricky was, too. He threw out his arms and swung Ricky out as far as he could, and Ricky spun back towards him with a laugh.

The spin landed him right up against Tinsley's chest. Tinsley faltered, half-heartedly trying to push him away, but Ricky grabbed his tie, pulling himself in closer. His body was warm from dancing, and a lock of his dark hair had come loose and fallen over his brow. He looked up into Tinsley's eyes, gently pulling him down until their faces were only inches apart. 

"What…" Tinsley desperately tried to catch his breath. "What are you doing?"

"Blending in," Ricky said in a low voice. He placed a hand on Tinsley's neck, rubbing his thumb against his cheek. The touch was warm and strangely tender, and this time Tinsley didn't pull away. Ricky smiled. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Tinsley's.

Tinsley forgot how to breathe. For a moment or two he stood slack-jawed, and let Ricky's soft lips brush over his own. Then he felt himself returning the kiss.

It was surprisingly chaste, and lasted only for a minute. But when Ricky pulled away and released his grip on his tie, Tinsley felt like his heart was beating out of his chest. He stood there, stunned. "...Fuck," he muttered weakly.

Ricky only grinned. "Take me out to dinner first," he said. 

"Wh- You know that's not what I…" Tinsley blinked. Over Ricky's shoulder, he saw a familiar face. It was Giacone, slinking along the far wall. The mobster made it to the back right corner of the club, then opened a door marked 'Employees Only' and disappeared inside. Tinsley huffed and adjusted his tie. "C'mon. I just spotted our guy."

They pushed their way past the crowd and followed Giacone through the door. It led to a darkened hallway, with a series of doors on the left-hand side. Giacone was about to open one of them when he saw Tinsley and Ricky enter the hallway. His eyes widened. "You…!"

Tinsley had his revolver on him before he could get another word out. "Easy," he said. "Put your hands behind your head. No sudden moves. We just want to ask you a few questions."

Giacone begrudgingly complied, backing up against the wall. Tinsley patted him down, then pulled two pistols out of his pockets and stuffed them in his own waistband.

"Okay, first question," Ricky said, motioning towards the door. "What's in there?"

Giacone glared at him. "...Manager's office."

"Is he in?"

"No."

"Great." Ricky pulled out one of his knives - Jenny? God, Tinsley hated that he knew their names - and pointed it towards Giacone. "Open it up."

Giacone opened the door, and Ricky prodded him inside. The room was a small office, with filing cabinets on the left-hand side and a desk and chair on the right. Above the desk was a large dark tinted window. Ricky shoved Giacone into the chair and held the knife to his throat. "Hey Tins, do you P.I. types carry handcuffs?"

Tinsley looked around the room. "I don't," he said, his gaze landing on a roll of packing tape among a pile of office supplies. "But we can make do."

A few minutes later, Giacone was securely taped to the chair, his hands behind his back. Tinsley leaned back on the filing cabinet and folded his arms. He could see himself reflected in the dark window. "Evening, Frankie," he said. "Nice to see you again."

Giacone scowled up at him, but didn't say anything.

Tinsley scowled back. "You know something about that briefcase everyone's after, don't you? I know you were on that train, so you might as well fess up."

Still silence.

Ricky sighed and looked at his watch. "C'mon, Tins, this is taking too long. Let me have a crack at him."

"Err, just give me a few minutes…"

Giacone laughed, once. "Take as long as you need," he said. "I'm never gonna spill a word to either of you jokers."

Tinsley winced, then shook his head, holding up his hands. "Shouldn'a said that, pal."

Giacone snarled. "Huh?"

"Don't you get it, shit-for-brains?" Ricky said, grinning. "If you're not gonna talk, that makes you useless to us." He slipped out of his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. There was a terrifying look in his eyes, and seeing it made the temperature in the room seem to drop by several degrees. Tinsley shivered.

"Therefore," Ricky continued, "there's nothing besides the big guy and his moral compunctions to stop me from skinning you like a rat and decorating this office with your fucking entrails." He flashed his teeth in a cold smile. "And he can always turn around."

Giacone faltered for a moment, but he sat up straight. "It's gonna take more than threats to get to me," he said.

Ricky undid his tie and stuffed it into Giacone's mouth. He twirled his knife in his fingers. "Great," he said, then brought the blade down into the meat of Giacone's thigh.

The mobster howled, the sound of it muffled by the gag. Tinsley pushed himself off the filing cabinet with a start. "Holy shit! Ricky!"

"Time to turn around, Tins." Ricky grinned and brought another knife out of his pocket. He flicked open the blade and ran the edge gingerly along Giacone's cheek. "You know why I keep so many of these on me?" he cooed. "Well, if I take that one out…" He twisted the handle of the knife in Giacone's leg, eliciting another muffled cry of pain. "...you'll pass out or bleed to death. But I'm not done playing with you yet."

Giacone struggled in vain against his bonds. He tried to say something around the gag, but Ricky held a finger to his lips. "Shh… You weren't going to spill anything to us, remember?" He smiled, then brought the second knife down into Giacone's right shoulder and twisted it.

Giacone screamed into the gag, his entire body jerking in the chair. Tinsley couldn't watch. But he couldn’t just turn around, either. "Ricky!" he shouted, reaching out to grab his shoulder. "Stop this!"

Ricky turned to face him, and for a moment he seemed to recover himself. He gently batted Tinsley's hand away and leaned back in towards Giacone. "Pay him no mind," he said to the mobster. He flicked open a third knife with a serrated edge. "He can't save you. And I'm about to start getting creative with Tawdry here." He paused. "Unless, of course, you're ready to answer questions…?"

Giacone nodded, moaning pitifully. Ricky held the flat of the knife to his throat, just to see him shiver. Then he sighed and closed the blade. "Don't worry, Tins. He'll live. If he talks." He pulled the tie out of Giacone's mouth. "Now spill."

Giacone gasped for air. "...I have the briefcase," he said.

Tinsley blinked. "What?"

Giacone nodded, wincing. "I happened to be riding that train back from Fayetteville, and I ran into a guy from Chicago who I had beef with. We got in a scuffle, and I ended up with his briefcase. I got curious about what it was, so I looked inside." He hung his head. "I didn't tell Mr. Luciano, or anybody. I thought I could get something for myself out of it." He sighed. "Now I wish I'd never seen the damned thing."

Tinsley frowned, rubbing his chin. "How'd you end up tailing us?"

Giacone cast a brief glance over at Ricky. "Word travels fast between families. We started to hear rumors from LA about a briefcase full of blackmail, and the boss got interested. Then Mr. Dragna called him up and asked him to leave Goldsworth alone. That was suspicious. So he sent me and Night to follow you guys, hoping to get the briefcase for himself. I had to play along."

"Where's the briefcase now?" Ricky asked. He was clearly getting impatient. "You wouldn't be stupid enough to carry it with you, huh?"

"Of course not!" Giacone looked hesitant. "...It's in a bank box." When Ricky flicked his knife back open, he flinched. "It's true! The key's in my breast pocket. And that's all I know. I swear."

Ricky immediately shoved his hand into the man's pocket, and sure enough emerged with a small brass key. He grinned. "I'll be keeping this," he said, slipping the key into his pants pocket.

Tinsley leaned back on the filing cabinet. "That's not all you know," he said. "What about the Sodder kids? What happened to them?"

Giacone blinked. "Oh. That? I don't know."

Tinsley gritted his teeth. "Don't play games with me! I can sicc Ricky back on you at any time."

"...I'm not a dog," Ricky grumbled, folding his arms.

"I'm not playing games!" Giacone said, with some desperation. "I really don't know! All I did was scare the guy." He frowned. "I was gonna torch the house, too, but when I showed up, somebody else had already done it. Trust me, I'm as confused as you are. I have no clue what happened to those kids."

Tinsley leaned back, processing this. Giacone had no reason to lie… But Tinsley wasn't working that case anymore. He shook his head. "Alright, one last thing. Satisfy my curiosity. Who's the government bigwig with dirty laundry in that briefcase?"

Ricky turned to look at him with wide eyes, a note of warning in the expression. Giacone looked truly nervous. "...I can't say…"

"Yes you can," Tinsley said, plowing ahead. "Give me a name, a position, _something_. I gotta know what we're up against."

Giacone gulped. He took in a deep breath. "...Fine. He's DOJ. He's the-"

Suddenly there was the sound of a shot, and a crash, and the glass window behind Giacone shattered. Giacone's forehead exploded as a bullet tore through his skull, and he slumped forward in the chair.

"Shit!" Tinsley dove to the floor. He caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure through the window as he went down; it seemed to be wearing a Stetson hat.

Two more bullets shot through the window, passing right over Tinsley's head. He looked around for Ricky, and spotted him on his hands and knees, reaching up towards the corpse. Tinsley hissed. "Ricky! We gotta go!"

"Let me get my knives back first!"

_"NOW!"_

Tinsley got up to a crouch and pushed open the office door, then grabbed Ricky by the collar and pulled him through. 

They entered the hallway just as Banjo did, his Colt revolver in his hand and 'Night Night' Di Nelli in step behind him. _Shit shit shit shit shit..._ Tinsley bolted for the door to the rest of the club as two shots rang out behind him. Ricky yelped, and Tinsley felt a stab of pain as one of the shots grazed his arm, but he pushed the door open and then he was through.

The club's patrons had heard the shots and started to scatter. The crowd on the dance floor had turned into a broiling mess of people, running every which way and screaming in panic. Tinsley spotted Maizey near the bar, shoving and punching other patrons to make way for a frazzled Jebra. Tinsley caught her eye and motioned frantically towards the door; she nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Ricky appeared at his side, leaning against the door to the hallway to keep it shut. “That Banjo guy doesn’t quit, does he?” he said, a little breathlessly.

A bullet punched through the door a few inches above Ricky’s ear. “Slide the key under the door, now, and I’ll leave y’all alone,” Banjo said from the other side.

That was a lie, Tinsley knew. Banjo’s execution of Giacone had proved beyond doubt that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who’d seen the contents of that briefcase. He grabbed a chair from a nearby table and propped it up under the doorknob. “Run for it!” he said to Ricky, then sprinted across the emptying dance floor, towards the entrance.

As soon as Ricky started to follow him, there was a loud bang on the door. The banging continued as they ran through the club. Tinsley let Ricky dart through the entrance and back up the stairs, pausing to look back over his shoulder. Di Nelli burst through the door, a pistol in each hand, and Tinsley ran out, slamming the entrance door behind him and bounding up the stairs.

They met Maizey and Jebra on the sidewalk outside the club. Jebra looked a little shaken, but she didn’t seem to be hurt. Maizey had her arm around her shoulders, and was flagging down a cab. Tinsley jogged up to her. “Mind if we hitch a ride?”

Maizey helped Jebra into the front seat and scowled up at him. “Don’t be smart, just get in.”

The rest of them just barely managed to squeeze into the cab’s backseat, with Maizey on the left, Ricky in the middle, and Tinsley squished onto the end. Maizey slipped a ten-dollar bill to the driver, snapping at him to get them back to the hotel as fast as possible. With a squeal of the tires, the cab sped off.

Tinsley could breathe again. He leaned back in his seat, his head knocking lightly against the roof of the cab. He rubbed his arm, wincing as his fingers came away wet. 

“Oh my god, are you bleeding?” Maizey said.

Tinsley waved a hand. “Eh, it’s not that bad. Just a scratch.” He grimaced. “Hurts like a bitch, though…”

Maizey leaned over to look at him with a frown. “Huh? I wasn't talking to you.”

“What?” Tinsley shifted in his seat, trying to get a good look at Ricky. The back of the cab was dark, but he could see that the other man had his arms folded over his stomach. “Ricky? Are you hit?”

“Tch.” Ricky’s expression was stony. “I’m fine.” Despite himself, though, he lifted his hands for a moment. In the flashing streetlights, Tinsley could see a dark pool of blood on his shirt, and a jagged hole on the right side of his torso. It was an exit wound. Ricky winced, then put his hand back over the hole and folded his arms again. Beads of sweat shone on his forehead. “Went right through me. ‘S not as bad… as it looks…”

Tinsley's eyes were wide. "...Jesus, Ricky," he said. "We… we gotta get you to a hospital!"

"No, idiot!" Ricky let out a sharp hiss of pain as the cab went over a pothole. "No hospitals. Banjo's out to get me, I'm not gonna… make it easy for him." He laughed once, then blinked, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. "What…? Are you… worried about me… Tins? That's… sweet..."

Ricky slumped over onto Tinsley's shoulder. Tinsley's breath hitched. "Ricky!" He fumbled at the blood-soaked shirt, trying to press his palms over the wound. "Stay with me, damn it!"

In the darkened cab, his vision began to blur. And his hands were shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mob running gay bars was definitely a real thing that happened (see, for example, Stonewall), though I don't know how common it was in the '40s. It was convenient for this story's purposes, anyway.
> 
> Go listen to ['Sing, Sing, Sing.'](https://youtu.be/G7fARRnhWSg) It's basically the soundtrack for this chapter. And here's some [footage of people dancing the Lindy hop much better than Tinsley & Ricky,](https://youtu.be/v9xxeWRxSbA) in case you're curious about what the dance scene looked like.


	8. Chapter 8

Ricky groaned, blinking open his eyes. To say his side hurt like hell would be an understatement. For a few moments, his vision was blurry, and he wasn't sure where he was. Then his vision finally came into focus, and he realized he was back in the hotel room. He was lying on the bed, shirt open, with two pillows under his lower back so that his hips were in the air. It was a strange and uncomfortable position, and he squirmed.

"Don't move." Tinsley had pulled a chair up next to the bed and was leaning over him, taping a gauze pad to his side. "Gotta keep the wound elevated to reduce swelling. And so you don't bleed out."

Tinsley’s fingers brushed over Ricky’s bare chest. Their touch sent little electric thrills through him wherever they went. Ricky realized that he’d suffered grievous bodily harm, but he could get used to this. He lifted his head. "...I take it this means I didn't die, then.”

Tinsley hummed. "Not yet, but there's always hope." His expression softened. "You were right; the bullet went clean through." Finished taping, he leaned back in the chair and brushed his hair out of his eyes. His hands were flecked with dried blood, and shaking a little. "I didn't see any fragments or punctured organs, but I wasn't exactly digging around in there. Looks like you got lucky."

"Gee, okay, if you say so." Ricky looked down at the bandages. The detective had done a good job of patching him up. "Where'd you go to med school, Doctor Tinsley?"

Tinsley shrugged. "I did spend half the war at the naval hospital in Norfolk," he said. "You pick up a few things."

"Right." Ricky let his head flop back onto the pillow. "...Thank you," he said quietly.

Tinsley nodded. "Sure." He looked tired. More than usual, anyway. But he gave a little laugh. "I mean, what else are crime pals for?"

Ricky returned the laugh, grimacing when the movement sent a spike of pain through his torso. He looked over at Tinsley's hands, which now rested on his thighs. They were still shaking. Ricky quirked an eyebrow. "What I'd like to know is how you ever managed to patch me up jittering like that."

He'd meant it as a joke, just another of the jabs that were so characteristic of their relationship, but instead it struck a nerve in Tinsley. The detective balled his shaking hands into fists and got up from the chair, turning his back on Ricky and stalking over to the window. "...Go back to sleep," he muttered. "You shouldn't be talking, anyway."

Ricky frowned. "...Fine." Truth be told, he felt like he could drift off at any time. He'd stayed awake for these past few minutes through willpower alone. But it irked him that he'd seen Tinsley shaking like this multiple times now, and that he still didn't know the story. He didn't like not knowing things. He blinked; the room was starting to go fuzzy again, and his eyelids felt heavy. "Now who's not being square…?" he muttered. 

He at least got the satisfaction of seeing Tinsley turn around to look at him before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Ricky was in and out of sleep for the rest of the night, the next day, and the night after that. While he slept, he had vivid dreams. In one of them, he was lying half-naked on the Santa Monica beach, with a shirtless Tinsley straddling him and running his giant hands all over his bare skin. In another, he was in the desert, trapped in a prison of sun-bleached wooden shacks, ghosts whispering in the wind all around him, and he woke up in a cold sweat. Whenever he did wake, Tinsley was always there, sitting in the chair next to the bed, reading a newspaper or dozing himself. Once, he could have sworn he'd woken to Tinsley's hand cupping his cheek, but that could have also been a dream.

The next time Ricky really woke up, it was morning, and sunlight was filtering in through the windows. Tinsley was still in the chair, this time eating a plate of crepes. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he said. "I hope you enjoyed your seven-dollar nap."

Ricky yawned and stretched. Though his side was still sore, overall he was feeling much better. "Where'd you get those crepes?"

"Stephanos stopped by," Tinsley said. "He brought you a card."

Ricky turned his head to look at the bedside table, which now boasted a folded piece of cardstock with the words 'Get Well Soon!' and a cartoon cat wrapped in bandages printed on the front. "...He sure did."

"Hey, at least it wasn't flowers," Tinsley said, looking amused. "Oh, and I let him take a look at that key we got from Giacone."

Ricky shot up in bed, ignoring the pain in his side. "You _what?!"_

Tinsley held up a hand. "Easy! I didn't tell him what it's for. Frankly, he's too nice to get looped into our shit." He set the plate down on the bedside table. "But he does know this town better than either of us. I figured he'd have a better chance of figuring out which bank that key traces back to." He patted his jacket pocket. "Don't worry, I've got the real thing right here."

Ricky patted his pants pockets; empty. He seethed, grasping towards Tinsley. "Give it back to me! I'm the one that needs to find the stupid briefcase, I should have it!"

Tinsley actually flinched back in his chair. "Woah! What's with that reaction?" He became serious when he saw Ricky's expression, though. He seemed to think about it for a few moments, then sighed resignedly and pulled the key out of his pocket, tossing it to Ricky. "Don't you trust me?"

Ricky glowered, pocketing the key. "...I _like_ you fine, but I don't _trust_ anyone," he said. "That's the only reason I've lived this long. It's nothing personal. Apparently you don't trust me, either."

Tinsley looked exasperated. "I just didn't want you to do something crazy like run off on your own. You're not in great shape, you know." He ran a hand through his hair. "...But you have to admit, you're pretty hard to trust."

Ricky smiled a little at that, raising an eyebrow. "Who, me? Nonsense. Plenty of folks trust me."

"Yeah, that's how you fleece 'em," Tinsley said with a laugh.

"Touché." Ricky picked idly at the edge of the bandage Tinsley had wrapped around his torso. The detective could have just left him to die. It would have meant one less problem for him, and probably a lot less risk to his own life. It was what Ricky would expect from anyone else. But not from Tinsley. "...I guess," he said, "I do … distrust you less than most people."

"Well, that's something." Tinsley shook his head, smiling a little sheepishly. "I guess I trust you more than I should."

The two of them lapsed into silence. Tinsley eventually leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at his hands. "...I have fits, sometimes," he said quietly. "I thought I should tell you, since you wanted to know. I, uh, shake."

Ricky's eyebrows lifted a bit. Well, well...

Tinsley waved a hand, seemingly trying to be casual. It didn't work. "I got hurt in '43, had to be shipped home. It started after that. Shell-shock, they call it."

"What happened?" Ricky said, slowly. "You were in the Navy, right?"

Tinsley nodded, looked up at the ceiling, rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Yeah. I was in engineering on a destroyer. We were on escort duty off Vella Lavella when we ran into a group of Jap- ...enemy ships. Eventually, we in the engine room lost contact with the bridge. Bennett, the EOOW, sent me up to see what was going on. Turns out the whole ship was on fire. 

When I got up above decks, a shell exploded a couple feet away from me. Sent all sorts of shrapnel into my head. I tried to go back below, but… well, there’s an airlock between the engine room and the rest of the ship, to keep any changes in air pressure from blowing the whole thing up. When the ship starts to get in trouble, they lock the doors. I was so messed up I actually tried to open them, so the other guys could get out. Burned all the skin off my palms." 

Tinsley looked down at his hands. "Long story short, the ship sank," he said quietly. "Every man in that engine room went down with it. And I should have, too. Sometimes I feel like a coward, and I feel guilty for making it out. How screwy is that?"

"Pretty screwy," Ricky said, not unkindly. For once he felt like there wasn't much else he could say.

Tinsley leaned back in the chair. "You know how they treat shell-shock? They dope you up on morphine and send you on your way with a prescription for the stuff. Thanks for your service, here's a few trips to happy land, now buzz off. Well, the morphine did stop the fits, but it also got me hooked. And when my prescription ran out…" He ran a hand through his hair. "When I found myself in an alleyway having just purchased enough black tar heroin to kill a horse, I realized I had to stop. Locked myself in my apartment for three months. It was hell on earth, but I did it. I quit. And I packed my bags and drove east until the engine broke down in Gauley Bridge, West Virginia."

"...So that's why you left," Ricky said quietly. 

Tinsley nodded. "Yeah. After all that … I just couldn't stay in LA anymore. That part of my life was gone for good." He spread his hands. "Anyway, now you know just about everything there is to know about C.C. Tinsley."

"Why'd you decide to tell me?"

"Just figured it was only fair. I was the one who asked you to be honest with me." Tinsley shrugged. He looked relieved, like he'd gotten a weight off his chest. "It's funny, but … I feel like you're the only one I _could_ tell. How's that for irony?"

"Unfortunate, for sure." It made sense, though, in a way. Tinsley knew Ricky wouldn't pity him or say how sorry he was. He didn't need empty sympathies, just someone who understood him. And Ricky was beginning to suspect that he was the only one. It was the same the other way around, too.

Ricky leaned back on the headboard of the bed. "Well, I'm glad you made it back," he said, his serious expression giving way to a wry grin. "Otherwise, I'd have no one to pay for my hotel rooms."

Tinsley rolled his eyes, smiling a little. "I'm starting to suspect this is all just an elaborate con to get me to fund your New York City vacation."

Ricky raised an eyebrow. "Who's to say?" he said, in a jokingly mysterious tone. "Such a con would have to be masterminded by a true criminal genius…"

The phone on the desk started to ring, making him trail off. Tinsley stood up and answered it, a quizzical look on his face. As the person on the other end of the line talked, though, that look turned to one of exasperated suspicion. He hung up the phone and turned to Ricky. "That was Minestrone & Sons from Brighton Beach," he said. "Apparently your 'custom order' is ready for you to pick up."

Shoot. Ricky tried to look innocent. "Huh. That's strange. I’ve never heard of that place. ...Did they say what it was?"

Tinsley frowned. "Ricky."

Ricky stretched and carefully got out of bed. He felt a little wobbly, but good enough to walk. Probably. ...Eh, he'd be fine. If his wound opened up he could always get Tinsley to dress it for him again. Maybe even wrangle a little massage… "You know, this vacation is the pits," he said with a grin. "Wanna make a day trip to Coney Island?"

Tinsley had his hands on his hips. "Absolutely not."

* * *

Thirty minutes later they were standing on the Coney Island boardwalk, looking up at the giant ferris wheel of Steeplechase Park. Ricky was eating a corn dog. Tinsley was wondering why he kept letting himself be pushed around like this. “...If that _hole in your side_ starts bleeding through your shirt you better not come crying to me,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Ricky said, adjusting his cuffs. “I don’t intend on ruining any more of my clothes.” He was dressed fairly casually in keeping with the nature of the outing, wearing white and brown shoes and a Donegal tweed sport coat over a button-up shirt with no tie. The top few buttons of the shirt were undone, exposing the top of his chest. Tinsley hated that he’d chosen to wear it that way. He was sure the smug bastard had done it on purpose.

This whole ‘day trip’ had obviously been an excuse to retrieve whatever mysterious item Ricky had ordered from the Minestrone & Sons shop, which was located right across the street from the Coney Island boardwalk. They'd stopped there first, and Ricky had emerged empty-handed, claiming the whole thing to be a mix-up. He could have very easily gotten whatever it was sent directly to the hotel instead, though, so empty hands meant nothing. 

Ricky was clearly picking up on Tinsley's annoyance. He finished off the corn dog and tossed the stick over his shoulder. "Let's make this worth the cab fare and have some fun," he said with a grin. "Which coaster do you want to ride first? I say the Cyclone but I'd be okay if you want to start small and work our way up."

"Cyclone? Coasters?!" Tinsley followed Ricky's gaze to the huge, rickety pile of wooden matchsticks that was Steeplechase's biggest rollercoaster thrill ride. "Are you out of your mind? _You just got shot!_ And that thing is a death trap!"

Ricky pouted. "Aww, c'mon. You're no fun!" 

"Puppy-dog eyes will not move me on this."

Ricky glared at him instead and shook his finger. "Now you listen here. I have wanted to come to this park since I was a little kid. I am not going to leave without enjoying myself and that is final!"

"And I am not going to ride any rollercoasters!" Tinsley said, with absolute conviction.

Ricky looked about to continue the argument with some four-letter words. But then he paused, and smirked, his eyebrows lifting. "Would you prefer the Tunnel of Love?"

And that was how Tinsley found himself sitting in a little box on a creaking metal track eighty-five feet in the air. "...Is it too late to get off?" he said weakly, as they neared the top of the first big hill.

In the seat next to him, Ricky was electric with anticipation. "Most definitely," he said with a grin.

The train of cars crested the hill, and hung there for a moment, allowing just enough time for Tinsley's heart to drop into his stomach. Then they shot downwards, careening towards the ground and into a jolting nightmare maze of wooden track. Tinsley wanted to scream, but he was afraid that if he unclenched his jaw, the bouncing of the car would make him bite his own tongue. It was so horribly bumpy he could feel his brain rattling around in his skull, and every time the coaster dropped down a hill or swung around a hairpin curve a little bit of his soul left his body.

Ricky, of course, spent the whole ride yelling with maniacal glee. When it was finally over, he turned to Tinsley with a huge grin on his face. "See, that wasn't so bad!"

"It was so bad," Tinsley said, dazed, his hair sticking out from his head as if he'd been struck by lightning. He looked down at the metal lap bar expecting to see it twisted out of shape by his white-knuckled grip, and realized that he’d instead latched onto Ricky's arm. He let go, mumbling apologies as he staggered out of the car.

Ricky laughed and grabbed his hand back. He was enjoying himself so fully that he was practically glowing. "Not so fast," he said. "There’s more where that came from!"

Luckily, despite his threat of more rollercoasters, Ricky did not actually subject Tinsley to any of them. Instead, they took a trip through the Pavilion of Fun, rode the ferris wheel, and purchased some questionable hot dogs from Dan & Rebecca's Hot Dog Stand for a late lunch. Tinsley was at least able to make up for his embarrassing rollercoaster experience by absolutely demolishing Ricky at the sharpshooter carnival game, though Ricky's fiendish glee with the throwing darts soon made them even.

Ricky took a boyish delight in everything they did, and his energy was infectious. Now that he thought about it, Tinsley had never really seen the man … _happy_ before. It was strangely endearing. 

They eventually settled onto a bench across the boardwalk from a newspaper stand. Tinsley idly watched the people walking by. The boardwalk was crowded, but nothing like some of the pictures he'd seen of the park in its heyday. Though Coney Island was still a popular destination, it had lost a lot of its staff during the war and had never quite recovered. They'd repainted the old rides, but things just weren't the same and probably never would be. He knew this because it had been in yesterday's paper; the city's Parks Commissioner was apparently chomping at the bit to tear the whole place down. He supposed it was good for Ricky's childhood dreams that they'd come while they still had the chance.

Ricky now seemed oddly focused on the newspaper stand across the way, squinting his eyes towards one of the racks. "The guy on that magazine looks kinda like you," he said.

Tinsley squinted too, leaning forward and trying to see what he was looking at. His vision was not perfect and he probably needed spectacles, but he would never admit it. "Huh? Where?"

"Right there, third from the bottom."

"I don't see anything."

"Agghh." Ricky got up from the bench and walked over to the newspaper stand. He returned with a copy of the magazine in question and a large bag of popcorn. "There," he said, handing the magazine to Tinsley and poking at the cover. "That looks _just_ like you. It's even more uncanny up close."

Tinsley looked down at the magazine with bemusement. It was one of those pulp detective publications, and the cover design was actually an artist's rendition of two men in dramatic lighting standing on a train platform. The figure Ricky had been so intent on pointing out to him was the taller of the two, dressed in a rumpled suit, with a long, unshaven face and drooping eyes. But he also had a sensible haircut, and that dashing roguish handsomeness that was omnipresent on these types of publications. Tinsley squinted. "Eh, I don't see it… but the short guy looks an awful lot like you."

"What?" Ricky snatched the magazine back. The other figure on the cover did have dark hair, dark eyes shrouded in exaggerated mystery, and a curled mustache. He was even dressed in a heather grey suit that looked just like the one Ricky had worn to Grand Central Station. "Amazing Unsolved Mysteries presents 'The Man on Platform Three,'" Ricky read, his eyes skimming over the cover. "Introducing Detective Casey Tingles, in an all-new adventure from Miss Holly Horsely…"

"Wait a minute." Tinsley frowned. "Holly Horsely? We met her at … the train station… on Platform Three..." He blinked. "Hold on. Is this supposed to be about _us?"_

"Casey Tingles! She called you Casey Tingles!" Ricky wheezed with laughter, flipping through the magazine until he found the story in question. "Oh, this is too good. Let's see … 'Richard Goldman was the richest, most fashionable, and most secretive investment banker in Poughkeepsie, and Casey knew that behind his offer was a sinister purpose.'" He lowered his voice on the words 'sinister purpose,' then cracked up again, laughing until tears started to form at the corners of his eyes. "Here, you read it. I can't take it anymore…"

Tinsley was initially concerned; effectively having their faces on a magazine cover probably wasn't going to help them lay low. But he realized as he flipped through the story that the people who were after them already knew they were in New York, and that Banjo McClintock probably didn't read this type of thing anyway. He skimmed the first few paragraphs and couldn't help but giggle. "Quoth Dicky Goldman," he said, then held his finger over his upper lip and launched into an exaggerated impression of Ricky. "'Casey Tingles, you're the best detective on the eastern seaboard, and I need your help. Oh, I'm a terrible fool, Tingles. I've done something really stupid. Help me, please, I beg you!'"

"It doesn't say that!" Ricky protested, grabbing for the magazine. "Richard Goldman would never beg!"

"It does too. 'I beg you.' See?"

"...Yeah, well, it also says Casey Tingles almost dies choking on an avocado pit."

"What? You're making that up."

"Nuh-uh, look, it's on page forty-eight!"

For the next hour or so, the two of them took turns eating from the popcorn bag and dramatically reading passages from the story to each other, pausing every few minutes to descend into uncontrollable laughter. By the time it was over, they were almost in tears. "I can't believe Richard Goldman was the murderer all along!" Tinsley squeaked out between laughs. "Who could have guessed?!"

"This is unacceptable!" Ricky protested, holding his sides. "Slander! I'm going to write a strongly-worded letter to the editor!" He scarfed down the last of the popcorn. "Richard Goldman would never use dynamite that way!"

"You have to admit that explosion was really cool, though."

"Oh, absolutely. And the chase scene on top of the train? Beautiful." Ricky made a chef's kiss, then laughed and leaned back on the bench. "Ahh… is it evening already?"

Tinsley looked up at the sky, which had faded to orange. "Must be." Funny; he hadn’t really noticed. He stood up and stretched. He was strangely reluctant to go. Just now, he'd felt more at ease than he had in a long time. Probably since before the war. But the crowds were dwindling, and many of the attractions had closed for the day. "I suppose we should be heading back."

"...Yeah." Ricky looked about as reluctant as Tinsley felt. But he stood up, placing the magazine inside his coat, and they both walked back through the park to where the boardwalk met the street. 

They hailed a cab, and thirty minutes later they were back outside the Hotel Dagaccia. By now the sky was dark. Ricky looked up at Tinsley. "Y'know, that was really fun," he said. "If we live, I'd say we should do it again sometime."

Tinsley smiled. "Hm. I guess we better make sure we live, then."

"Yeah." Ricky's grin seemed to soften. "I … almost wish we could have more days like this," he said.

Tinsley blinked. The light from the streetlamp bathed Ricky in a golden glow. "Maybe we could have," he said. "If I wasn't me and you weren't you - if I wasn't a detective and you weren't a criminal. If instead of 'crime pals' we were just ... friends."

"...I guess you're right. I'm me, and you're you." Ricky stood up on the balls of his feet and placed his hands on Tinsley's shoulders. His finger traced the line of his jaw. "Still," he said, leaning in towards Tinsley's face, so close he could feel his breath on his cheek. "I'm not sure I'd want to be just friends..."

Suddenly the front door to the hotel opened, spilling light out into the street. Stephanos poked his head through the door. "Oh, C.C. and Ricky! There you are! I figured out which bank that key comes from!" He stepped out onto the sidewalk, smiling. "It took me all day, but it was pretty exciting! You guys missed out."

Ricky tipped back onto his heels, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a look of smoldering fury. Tinsley breathed a sigh. He wasn't sure if it was from disappointment or relief. "...Well, looks like it's back to the ol' crime," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EOOW = Engineering Officer On Watch
> 
> This chapter sorta ended up becoming the 'beach episode' / fluffy filler chapter for this fic. I put it in here because we're starting to get close to the final stretch…


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence, period-typical homophobia and racism.
> 
> Also this chapter has some segments that jump around and/or overlap in time. Just wanted to warn you so hopefully it's not too confusing.

Tinsley followed Stephanos back into the hotel lobby, though Ricky didn't follow after him, preferring instead to linger outside the hotel door and scowl.

Inside the hotel lobby, Maizey was standing in front of the reception desk. She raised an eyebrow at Tinsley. "Where's your sticky-fingered friend?"

"Just outside." Tinsley shrugged. "Having a pout, probably. He tends to get a little worked up over things."

"Yeah?" Maizey pointed her index finger towards him. "You're looking a little red in the face, too. Something happen?"

"Huh?" Tinsley's hands went to his cheeks. "No, nothing happened." Something had _almost_ happened, maybe, when Ricky had leaned in close … but Tinsley wasn't sure what it was. Or he wouldn't let himself think about it.

Maizey's eyes narrowed. "I'm trying to figure out," she said, "if you don't want to talk about it, or if you're just stupid. You two should know you're safe here; Jebra and I aren't gossips, neither is Stef."

"Huh?" He'd already told Maizey why they were on the run; what more could she think he wasn't telling her..? "What do you mean?"

Maizey sighed. "So you're just stupid, then. Good to know." Her expression softened a bit. "Listen, I'm sorry for getting up in your business," she said. "And I understand that it's a hard thing to admit to yourself, especially with the way things have been going since the war. It's going to be a tough time to be … well, anything but normal, really." She shook her head, then recovered herself and pointed towards the door. "Look, that guy follows you around like a lovesick puppy dog. And if you haven't noticed it by now then you truly are an awful detective and there's no hope for you."

Tinsley frowned, feeling his cheeks go red again. "Lovesick? No, Ricky's not … he's just _weird_ . He's just _like that_. Always has been."

Maizey raised an eyebrow. "Always? Christ, it's worse than I thought."

"You know, maybe you should butt out," Tinsley grumbled, heading for the door. Was she really implying…? No, he wasn't going to think about it. Not now, anyway. He swung the door open. "Ricky? Are you coming in, or what?"

* * *

Ricky let Tinsley head back into the hotel first. He hovered outside the front door, glaring into the night and grinding his teeth. "Idiot," he muttered, directing the insult as much at himself as at Stephanos or Tinsley. If he really thought there could be something between him and the detective, as he was beginning to suspect he did, then he was a fool. He took deep breaths, trying to quell his frustration, and the tightness in his chest.

"Everything alright, Ricky dear?"

Ricky whirled around, eyes narrowing and Suky springing into his hand. Francesca Norris was leaning against the face of the building a few feet to his right, smiling at him from beneath a wide-brimmed black hat.

"Not now!" Ricky hissed.

"I know. Your detective friend will be wondering what's keeping you. Meet me around the back as soon as it's convenient." She smiled and ducked around the corner of the building, disappearing into the dark.

The second she was gone, the hotel door opened and Tinsley poked his head outside. "Ricky? Are you coming in, or what?"

"...Yeah," Ricky said, stuffing his hands into his pockets so Tinsley wouldn't see the knife. "I just needed a moment."

Stephanos was waiting in the lobby, a quizzical expression on his face. He explained that the key was for a deposit box at a small local bank near the East River docks, and that it would open tomorrow morning at eight. Tinsley thanked him, and he and Ricky took the elevator back up to their hotel room.

Ricky sat on the bed and watched Tinsley as he stripped down to his undershirt and trousers, tossing his jacket and shirt in a heap on the floor as he pulled them off. He was gangly and pale and his head was far too big for the rest of him - not traditionally handsome, in short. And yet lately, every time he so much as rolled up his sleeves or loosened his tie, Ricky felt faint.

But it was more than that. He'd had … dalliances before, on occasion. But this wasn't that. It went much deeper. He enjoyed Tinsley's company. He felt safer with him around. He cared about what happened to him. He wanted to be close to him. He…

Ricky held a hand over his mouth, looking up at the ceiling. There was no denying it; he was in too deep. 

He loved Tinsley. He'd loved him the whole goddamned time.

"You feeling okay?" Tinsley sat down next to him on the bed. "Let me see that bandage. If all those rollercoasters didn't knock something loose I'll eat my hat."

It took Ricky a moment to recover himself. "...Better start munching then, big guy," he said, lifting his shirt. Sure enough, the bandage was still in place, though the end of the tape had started to peel upwards. 

Tinsley reached over and smoothed it down with his thumb. "...Hey," he said, not meeting Ricky's gaze. "So, uh… just now, when we were at the door…"

Ricky tried not to react. "Yeah?"

Tinsley sat back and rubbed his neck. "Um… nothing. Never mind."

"Oh… Okay then." 

They lapsed into a tense silence. Ricky studied Tinsley's face, trying to figure out what he was thinking, but the detective's expression was unreadable. Eventually Ricky gave up and turned onto his uninjured side and closed his eyes. He waited until he felt the sheets rustle as Tinsley tucked himself into bed.

As soon as Tinsley was asleep, Ricky crawled out the window and onto the fire escape. As he tried to climb down, though, a spike of pain shot through his side, causing him to miss a step and tumble to the next level with a 'clang.' He swore under his breath and looked up towards the window, but didn't see any movement there. Satisfied that Tinsley hadn’t heard him, he dropped to the ground and looked around for Francesca.

She was standing in roughly the same place as last time they'd met back here, her arms folded. "Well? Have you made any progress?"

"Plenty. If all goes well, I'll have the briefcase by tomorrow."

"Really?" She raised her eyebrows. "...That's wonderful. Jack will be pleased to hear it." 

Ricky scowled. "Is that all you wanted? You made me scramble all the way down here just for that?"

Francesca shrugged. "Well, frankly I was surprised to hear such good news. Based on how you wasted your time today, I expected to have to give you some additional motivation."

Ricky gritted his teeth; she'd been watching them. Upsetting, but he tried not to let it show. "You were looking forward to it, more like. Don't worry, I want all this to be over just as much as you do."

Francesca hummed, smiling conspiratorially. "Oh, I'm not so sure about that. After all, you promised me you'd silence your detective friend when you obtained possession of the briefcase. But I'm increasingly disinclined to believe you. You two seem to have become rather close, if that little display just now was any indication. Or am I wrong?"

"...You're wrong," Ricky said flatly. _There's no way he feels the same as me… He probably doesn't even like men..._

"If you say so," Francesca said. "Funny that you've managed to convince him to help you, though. I always remembered Mr. Tinsley as an upstanding sort, for LA, anyway." She paused. "Does he know what you are?"

"...I'm sure he's guessed," Ricky said, wanting to have at least that much faith in Tinsley. It would be a very poor detective who couldn't recognize a homosexual after one had kissed him on the mouth. "My business cards are scented."

"Hm? Oh, I didn't mean _that._ " Francesca pulled out one of her daggers and held it between her fingertips. Her expression was catlike, a sleek black cat toying with its prey. "Does he know your _real_ dirty little secret?"

"What are you playing at?" Ricky growled. He was starting to get a sinking feeling.

Francesca leaned forward slightly, fixing him with her piercing grey eyes. "Does Tinsley know you're a murderer?"

Ricky froze. "...No," he said. "No, I'm not. I don't kill people."

Francesca raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn't be working for us if you didn't."

"I'm not a _murderer_ ," Ricky insisted, feeling his breath catch in his throat. "That time was … I- I _had_ to do it! I didn't have a choice."

Francesca had her teeth in him now, and she knew it. "No," she said, smiling. "You did it because you wanted to. Bodies don't end up looking like that from self-defense. You know that. Or have you really deluded yourself that much?"

"Shut up!" Ricky pulled Suky out of his pocket and stepped towards her. He suddenly felt sick. "Shut up and get out of here!"

Francesca laughed. "Or what? You'll kill me? Not a great way to prove your point, dear."

There was a loud 'clank' from the fire escape, and Francesca fled, disappearing into the dark. Ricky whirled around, his eyes darting upwards. There was a gun pointed at his head.

* * *

Tinsley watched Ricky roll over in bed, turning his back to him. He was thinking about suspicious behavior. Ricky's came in two distinct flavors.

The first was the more obvious 'hiding something' variety. The mysterious custom order, the sneaking out at night, the excuses. Tinsley knew it was in the man's nature to keep secrets, but it was beginning to seriously frustrate him. This wasn't a game; both of their lives were at risk here, and the least they could do was be honest with each other about what they knew. Despite Ricky having made it clear that he didn't trust anyone as a matter of principle, for some reason Tinsley almost resented the fact that he still didn't trust _him_.

The other flavor of suspicious behavior, however, was the one that, for the moment, concerned Tinsley the most. It had started occupying his thoughts after the … incident … at the Razor Club, and had only been exacerbated by the day's activities, culminating in that almost-kiss in front of the hotel.

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? If it hadn't been for Stephanos' sudden appearance, Ricky would have kissed him. Again. And Tinsley probably would have let him. That was the concerning part.

Tinsley looked over at Ricky, still lying turned away from him. Carefully, he settled down and pulled the sheets over himself. He just needed to get some sleep and stop thinking about it. 

Of course, closing his eyes only made the thoughts worse. Why had Ricky tried to kiss him? There was an obvious answer… but maybe it was a trick, just another mysterious con. Maybe it was some Japanese custom, like how Europeans kissed each other as a greeting… but then Ricky had never been to Japan and barely spoke the language. Was Ricky even homosexual? His business cards _were_ gardenia-scented. But a man with a figure like that could do far better than Tinsley. Dressing Ricky's wound had led to the discovery that the man had the body of a Greek god, and Tinsley wished he had never learned this information. It had put butterflies in his stomach and brought the blood rushing to his cheeks.

... _He_ wasn't homosexual, was he? Tinsley hadn't really thought about it. Before the war he'd dated a few women, but the relationships had always fizzled out. He'd been convinced it was because he was so busy with his work… And then he'd joined the Navy. Which… okay, he and Bennett had gotten up to some things behind the capstan, but that only happened twice and they'd been at sea for months, it wasn't unusual for 'dame-starved' sailors to… to… 

...So maybe he was attracted to men. Ordinarily this revelation would have taken him some time to process, but now it was overshadowed by the fact that, of all men, he was attracted to Ricky Goldsworth. 

He was. He'd been deluding himself, pretending he didn't know what was going on, but now that he was admitting it he realized the pieces had come together some time ago. The truth was, he was falling for Ricky. And he didn’t know what to do…

There was a metallic 'clang' from outside the window, and Tinsley's eyes shot open. Next to him, the bed was empty.

He lay still for a few moments, listening. At first, there was silence. Then, he just barely managed to pick up a quiet creaking. As silently as he could, Tinsley got out of bed and retrieved his revolver from the bedside table. He padded over to the window, finding it slightly ajar. He craned his neck, looking out over the fire escape.

On the ground below, Ricky was talking with a strange woman dressed all in black. Tinsley strained his ears, but couldn't pick up what they were saying. Slowly and carefully, he opened the window and stepped out onto the fire escape.

The metal guardrails hid him from the two people below, and now their voices were coming clearer to him. At first they seemed to be talking about the briefcase, but the conversation eventually shifted to his and Ricky’s relationship. As the woman spoke, Ricky seemed to become agitated, raising his voice. Finally, the woman asked him a question. 

"Does Tinsley know you're a murderer?"

Tinsley froze. ...No, Ricky didn't kill people. He was a shyster, a con artist… he'd burned a couple houses in LA but had never left behind any bodies. He'd killed Banjo’s goons, but that had been in self-defense… The word 'murderer' was reserved for people like the Cleveland torso killer or that axe maniac in New Orleans. And Ricky wasn't like that… Tinsley knew him well enough to… 

Something flashed in the dark, and he could see that Ricky had drawn one of his knives. He was advancing on the woman, shouting now, his voice filled with rage. 

Tinsley jumped to his feet, drawing his revolver. The noise alerted the woman and she fled into the darkness. Ricky whirled around, and for a moment, with his face twisted up in an almost inhuman snarl, he did look like a killer. 

When he saw Tinsley, though, his eyes widened, and the blood drained from his face. "Tins…"

"Drop the knife, Ricky," Tinsley said, his voice shaking. He slowly descended the fire escape and hopped down onto the street. "Nuh-uh, I said drop it," he said when Ricky tried to put the knife back into his pocket. "And put the rest of 'em on the ground, too."

Ricky complied, carefully turning out his pockets and letting Suky, Jenny, Lotte, and Tawdry tumble to the pavement. He spread his hands. "Tins, it's… I- I can explain," he said. 

"...Damn it," Tinsley muttered. He was angry. "I'm such an idiot. I keep giving you chances, over and over, and you just keep lying to me through your fucking teeth! I'm tired of it, Ricky! Why can't you get that I just want you to tell me the truth?!"

Ricky bit his lip. "I'm sorry, Tins, I…" He shook his head slightly, then glared up at Tinsley. "Fine, you want the truth? The truth is, you're important to me! I… I just wanna be close to you! But if I tell you the truth, about everything, you'll realize what a horrible person I am, how stupid and dangerous all of this is, and you'll leave. I don't want that!"

Tinsley was momentarily taken aback. This … didn't seem like a lie. Did Ricky … really feel that way? He shook his head. "I'm a skeptical guy," he said. "I've seen too much - and been around you for too long - not to be. Christ, Ricky, I never thought you were a saint! I'm not some naive dupe ensnared by your charms. Frankly I'm offended you think of me that way."

"I don't!" Ricky protested, though not with the same fire as before. He looked away. "But this whole thing has gotten dangerous. You don't have any good reason to still be here. So if it's not because I'm fooling you, then why?"

Tinsley spread his arms. "Jesus, I don't know! Maybe I am crazy, because maybe I _want_ to believe that, underneath all the bullshit, there's still a person in there. Maybe not a good person, but at least not a monster like these mob guys, or whatever's happened to Banjo. And I think I want to believe that because… maybe you're important to me, too." He swallowed. "But I'm tired of believing. I wanna _know_. Tell me, am I right or am I wrong?"

In that moment, his eyes shining in the cold moonlight, Ricky looked vulnerable. He shook his head. "...I don't know," he murmured.

They stared at each other for a few silent moments. Then Tinsley slowly lowered the gun. "Let's find out together, then," he said. "Explain everything. And I mean _everything_."

Ricky let his hands fall to his sides, a sigh of relief escaping him. “...Okay," he said quietly. "First off, that woman was Francesca Norris. The LA mob sent her to keep an eye on me. I promised her I'd give her the briefcase as soon as we got it. But I … had a fake made. I wanted to keep the real thing for myself." He held up his hands again. "Now don't start. I knew you wouldn't like that, which is why I didn't tell you. I'm sorry, but it's gonna happen. You won't be changing my mind on this."

Tinsley ran a hand through his hair, looking upwards. Ricky was right, he didn't like that. But that wasn't what concerned him the most right now. "She said you were a murderer, Ricky. What was she talking about?"

Ricky's shoulders sagged. "...You heard that?" he said quietly.

Tinsley held his gaze. "Are you?"

Ricky blinked and looked away. "I'm not! It's… It's complicated."

"Then explain it to me."

"I… It was during the war. While you were gone." Ricky looked up at him, and to Tinsley's surprise, his eyes were shining with tears. "...I did kill someone," he murmured. 

* * *

It was December 10th, 1941, three days after Imperial Japan had launched its attack on the American naval base at Pearl Harbor. Now the United States was at war, and Ricky Goldsworth was headed to the _Nihonmachi_ , LA's Japan-town, to check on his mother. 

He'd called her earlier that morning, and she'd said she was fine, but he couldn’t help but worry. He had a lot less faith in human decency than she did. Besides, Lucy Gold was _issei_ and wasn't allowed to own property, so technically it was his house anyway and there was nothing she could do to stop him from dropping by.

On the way over, he decided to stop at Mayor's, his go-to local watering hole. Joe Mayor, the owner, was behind the bar that night, and he and Ricky exchanged pleasantries while he fixed him a gin and soda.

Ricky nursed the drink for a while, lost in his thoughts. He'd seen C.C. Tinsley moving boxes out of his office the day before; probably their long-standing rivalry was about to come to an end. Ricky had always appreciated Tinsley as the devil he knew. Now that all the cops and investigators were going to be drafted, that left just him and the LA mob. Ricky frowned, swirling his glass. Tinsley was probably off to war, like the all-American boy wonder he was. The gangly son of a bitch hadn't even bothered to say goodbye.

"Hey, you!" A man stumbled up to Ricky, jolting him from his thoughts. "You're Japanese, aren'tcha?"

"...I'm American," Ricky said coldly.

The man ignored his reply, glaring at him hatefully. He was big, maybe six foot and heavy-set, and he was close enough for Ricky to smell the alcohol on his breath. "My kid brother was on the _Arizona_ ," he said. "Now he's dead." He tapped Ricky's chest with a meaty finger. "You Jap bastards are gonna pay for that…"

Ricky shot up from his barstool. "Alright you ignorant jackass," he said hotly. "I'll give you one chance: back up and leave me the fuck alone!"

"Or what? You'll punch my knees?" The man sneered and pulled back one of his fists.

Ricky flicked open Suky and held the knife where the man could see it. "I'm not playing around," he said, his tone dangerous.

The man blinked, scowled, then backed up. "...You ain't got the guts to fight like a man," he muttered, turning and heading for the exit.

Ricky seethed, almost going after him. But he felt a hand on his arm. "Easy, Ricky," Mayor said. "I'm sorry; that man was out of line. He won't be coming around here anymore."

Ricky fought to get his breathing back under control. "...Thanks for the drink," he muttered, paid for his gin, and left the bar.

He continued on to his mother's house, but his mood had soured, and he was distracted for the rest of the walk. He barely even noticed that it was getting dark. When he reached the old familiar townhouse, he saw that the lights were all off. He frowned, putting his own spare key in the lock and opening the front door. "Ma? Are you here?"

A note had been left on the side table in the front hall, written in his mother's small, neat handwriting. Lucy had left to pick up some groceries for dinner and expected to be back soon.

Ricky heard the front door creak open and footsteps behind him, and he turned around, smiling. "Hey ma, great timing, I just got here-" He froze. The figure in the doorway wasn't his mother.

It was the man from the bar. He'd followed Ricky home. To his mother's house.

Ricky flicked open Suky and swung towards the man, but he'd been caught off guard and the man was surprisingly fast. A meaty fist smashed into his wrist, knocking the knife out of his fingers. The man swung another punch towards Ricky's head, and he ducked out of the way, the man's knuckles just glancing off his temple. Ricky stumbled backwards, knocking into the side table and sending one of his mother's vases crashing to the floor.

The man grinned down at him, little more than a looming shadow in the dim light. "Not so tough now, are ya?" he said, then punched Ricky in the gut. "Hope that teaches you a lesson, you damned traitor."

Ricky fell to his knees, the wind knocked out of him. The man turned around and started to head for the door. He was leaving. Ricky struggled to his feet, glaring at the man's back. There was a buzzing in his head, like static. In the dark, his vision was fuzzy and unfocused.

There was another knife in his hand. The buzzing was growing louder. He rushed forward and brought the knife down into the man's back, between his shoulder blades.

The moments after that began to blur. The man roared, but Ricky barely heard him. His arm was moving, up and down, and something hot and wet sprayed across his face. The man was on the ground now, flipped onto his back, and Ricky was on top of him, and the man's wide eyes stared up at him, frozen in terror.

Ricky didn't know how long it took him to recover himself. When he did, his hands were covered in blood. The man's body lay crumpled and lifeless beneath him, his chest and throat torn open.

Ricky had never killed before, not like this. It had been so easy. Now he was surprisingly calm. He retrieved a plastic tarp and a saw from the basement, and cut up the corpse, working as quickly as he could. He stuffed the pieces into trash bags, then into an old suitcase that he knew his mother wouldn't miss, and went upstairs to take a shower. He went through the motions without really feeling anything.

Lucy arrived back from her errands much later than planned - her bus home had blown a tire and she'd had to wait almost half an hour for the next one. When she walked into the house, the floor had been scrupulously cleaned, and Ricky was standing in the hallway, with a vacant look in his eyes. Lucy set down her grocery bags. "Ricky, what's wrong?"

Ricky turned to look at her, and his eyes began to sting. "Ma, I'm sorry," he murmured. He gestured limply towards the empty side table. "I… I broke your vase."

Lucy wrapped him in a hug, standing on her toes to reach his shoulders. "Never mind that," she said. "Sit down, I'll make you a cup of tea."

"I… I can't, I'm sorry," Ricky said. He stepped back. "I've got to go. I'll… come back tomorrow."

Against his mother's protests, he left the house and rolled the suitcase along behind him. He walked until he stood on the banks of the Los Angeles River, flowing stronger than usual after a heavy rain. He opened the suitcase and tossed the trash bags into the water. They disappeared beneath its murky surface with a heavy splash.

There was the clacking sound of a pair of heels on the concrete behind him. "Well, well. Hello there, Mr. Goldsworth."

* * *

Back in the present, Ricky rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. "Francesca Norris caught me dumping the body," he said. "Apparently the LA mob used that spot, too. I never asked what she was there for.

She told me that Jack Dragna had been watching me for a while. Said he was impressed with my, uh… fire-setting abilities, and that he wanted me on the family's payroll. I tried to say no, but I… didn't really have a choice. If I refused, Francesca would tell the cops about what I'd done. And if that came out, it would lead them back to my ma. An American man killed in a Japanese woman's house? In 1941? Didn't matter that she had nothing to do with it, they'd have sent her off to god knows where. She's the only family I have, so I did what I had to do. I _don't_ regret that."

Tinsley had been listening with rapt attention, and now he felt sick. "Jesus," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Ricky gave him a shaky smile. "I just told you I killed a guy and chopped up his body, and you say you're sorry."

"I meant about your mother, Ricky, chrissakes!" Tinsley held his hands to his head. This was … a lot to process. He took a deep breath. "Anyway… maybe you were justified. Hell if I know."

Ricky just nodded, unable to meet Tinsley's gaze. "Now would probably be a good time to leave, then, if you're gonna do it. I can keep Banjo busy for a while."

Tinsley shook his head. "No. I'm not going anywhere." He reached out and grabbed Ricky by the shoulders, gently but firmly. "We're gonna beat Banjo and his goons, but we're gonna do it my way. Got it?"

Ricky nodded. His nose was red, and there were tears in his eyes, though he was trying to blink them away. 

Tinsley's expression softened. "...Idiot," he muttered, then pulled Ricky into an embrace.

The shorter man did nothing to resist, his face buried into Tinsley's shoulder. Tinsley held onto him in the dark, silent night, and realized that he couldn't go back from this now if he tried.

* * *

'Night Night' Di Nelli sat uncomfortably in the diner booth he used to share with the recently late 'Legs' Giacone. Across from him was the man who'd shot his former partner in crime, chewing loudly on one of the diner's hockey-puck-like steaks. "...I am truly sorry about your friend," Banjo McClintock said, putting down his fork. "But I have my orders. You understand that, don't you? I reckon you fellers don't stay alive too long if you can't take orders."

"...Yeah," Di Nelli said, playing with a toothpick. "I understand." He understood the barrel of that Colt revolver, anyway. But he also knew Lucky wouldn't abide this - a rogue fed killing his made men without permission was unthinkable. Di Nelli had made sure the boss found out about Legs. This G-man would get what was coming to him as soon as his usefulness ran out - that was what he'd been promised. He hoped he'd be there to see it happen.

A small man in a black suit approached the booth, handed Banjo a manila file, and disappeared again without a word. Banjo flipped open the file and skimmed its pages pensively. Di Nelli leaned over the booth table, trying to get a look. "What's that?"

"Just a little favor from the Navy Department," Banjo said, not looking up from his reading. "I already know damn near everything there is to know about Ricky Goldsworth, but our friend Mr. Tinsley has been a bit more elusive. Couldn't even find out what the 'C.C.' stands for without pulling government favors. But I was finally able to get his service records…"

Di Nelli waited while the lawman skimmed through the file. Finally, Banjo sat up, his finger tapping something on the page. "Well," he said, smiling a little. It wasn't a friendly expression, and Di Nelli almost felt bad for Tinsley. "That sure is interesting…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Issei = first-generation Japanese-Americans. During this time any immigration from Japan was illegal, so issei were not allowed to own property or run businesses, etc. Ricky was born in America, so he is a citizen and thus not subject to these restrictions.
> 
> Also fun fact: another name for a gin and soda is a gin rickey. I think I'm funny.


	10. Chapter 10

True to his word, Stephanos arrived at the Hotel Dagaccia the next morning at eight o'clock on the dot. He waited in the lobby for a few minutes, chit-chatting with Maizey. He was a little disappointed but not entirely surprised that he was the only one who'd shown up to this meeting on time.

Eventually, C.C. and Ricky emerged from the elevator. For some reason, they seemed slightly awkward around each other. Not in an unfriendly way; their hands were even touching at one point. Still, they studiously avoided each other's gaze. Maizey turned to Stephanos and lifted her eyebrows.

C.C. seemed relieved to see him. "Morning, Stef!"

Stephanos nodded and gave him a half-wave. "Good morning. You guys ready to go open a mysterious bank box?"

"More than ready," C.C. said, finally glancing at Ricky, whose anticipation seemed very intense. C.C. turned back to Stephanos. "Are you armed? This could get dangerous."

Stephanos patted his jacket. "Yes, but I hope I won't have to use it." He pointed towards the door. "I've got a cab waiting outside, so we should get a move on."

The cab ride to the bank felt interminable. Stephanos was sandwiched between C.C. and Ricky, forced to unintentionally intercept their stolen glances. In the close quarters, the awkwardness had ratcheted up to palpable levels. He tried to squeeze himself as far back into the seat as he could. Oh geez, he was a _third wheel_ , wasn't he? He was almost regretting his decision to come along.

He turned once to look through the back windshield, just to escape. For a minute, it almost seemed like a car was following them - a big black Ford, hovering just a few car-lengths behind. But it turned off onto a side street. Stephanos supposed the mysterious nature of the whole affair had him feeling a bit paranoid.

Luckily he was out of the cab soon enough and standing on the sidewalk, breathing the brackish East River-side air. The bank was a small, square brick building, nestled in between a row of run-down townhouses and an abandoned Bollman hat factory, converted to a munitions plant during the war and left to flounder afterwards. Stephanos turned to C.C. and Ricky. "This area is in the middle of the Lucianos' territory," he said. "We'll have to watch our backs."

"I always do," Ricky quipped. Stephanos noticed C.C. glance over at Ricky, though he couldn’t tell what the tall detective was thinking. Stephanos, for his part, grasped the handle of the front door to the bank and swung it open. "After you," he said.

* * *

  
When they entered the bank, Tinsley was thinking about a lot of different things. Most were less distinct thoughts and more the residual warmth of emotions from last night that he didn't know how to parse, so he left them alone. The one thought that was easiest to grasp was that they were almost at the end of their search.

And he didn't know what would happen afterwards. When Ricky didn't need him anymore, would they go their separate ways? Tinsley didn't want that. 

He could be that honest with himself, at least. He wanted Ricky to stick around. He realized with a start that he almost didn't want them to get the briefcase back at all. Because he liked whatever it was that they had now.

But everything has to end, sooner or later.

"...ir? Sir? How can I help you?"

Tinsley blinked. There was a young strawberry-blonde woman staring bemusedly at him over a brass countertop. He'd been so deep in thought that he'd wandered into the bank and up to the teller without realizing it. Stephanos and Ricky stood on either side of him, both giving him strange looks.

Ricky eventually rolled his eyes and dug the bank key out of his pocket. "I've got a deposit box here," he said. "Can you get it for me?"

The woman took the key, glancing down at the number imprinted on its surface. "Of course. If you'll wait here for just one moment, please." 

She disappeared into the back, then returned and led them down a short dark hallway to a private room with a low wooden table in the center. On the surface of the table was a large metal box. The teller handed Ricky the key and withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her as she left.

Tinsley, Ricky, and Stephanos stood around the table, looking down at the box. The suspense was palpable. Tinsley glanced up at Ricky. "Open it already!"

Ricky scowled. "Don't rush me!" He turned the key over in his fingers, then slid it into the lock and popped open the box. 

Inside was a thin rectangular briefcase, made out of dark, scaly leather. A combination lock was set into the lid underneath a heavy gold handle. Tinsley drew in a breath. It was exactly as Ricky had described it.

Ricky reached into the box and lifted up the briefcase, giving it a shake. He set it on the table, fiddled with the combination, and popped open the clasps. "Avert your eyes, gents," he said. "For your own safety."

Tinsley shook his head. "I told you, I'm in this thing all the way." He looked over at Stephanos, who shrugged and said, "I mean, I'm already here, I might as well see it, too. Whatever it is."

Ricky blinked. "Oh yeah, I guess we never told you. And Tinz doesn't know the full story." He grinned. "This is the life's work of the most prolific blackmailing ring in the United States. I say life's work because they're now operating out of the bottom of the San Francisco Bay. Jack Dragna took it because he wanted insurance against his bosses in New York, I took it for insurance against him, but we both got a lot more than that. This thing is practically a national security risk. Everything on everyone who's anyone is in here."

Stephanos looked impressed. "Wow… No wonder half of New York is after you."

"That's not exactly an achievement," Ricky quipped, obviously proud of himself anyway. He flipped open the briefcase.

Tinsley leaned over the table to get a closer look. It was filled to the brim with photos and documents. A lot of the documents seemed to be financial records, and a lot of the photographs looked like the sorts of shots Tinsley had taken during his career as a private eye - that is to say, _extramarital_ in nature. He spotted a few familiar faces, including mob bosses, state government officials, even the U.S. Attorney General. That was probably who'd sent Banjo after them, since the Marshals ran under the DOJ's authority. There were also some lower-level targets, though, including… 

Tinsley blinked. "Ricky, you're in this one!" Boy was he ever. And most of his clothes were not.

Ricky plucked the photo from Tinsley's hands, giving it only a glance before stuffing it into his jacket. "You like what you see?" he purred.

Tinsley flushed scarlet. Behind him, Stephanos made a pained expression.

Ricky grinned and closed the briefcase. He picked it up by the golden handle and headed for the door. "Anyway, looks like the goods are all here. Let's get back to the hotel before that crazy cowboy shows up out of nowhere again."

Tinsley chuckled, brushing off his embarrassment and following Ricky to the lobby. "Yeah, that would be just our luck, wouldn't it?"

There was an ominous 'click' that seemed to reverberate around the high-ceilinged room. It was the sound of a gun's safety being flicked off. "Oh, my apologies," came the low, smooth voice of Banjo McClintock. He was standing in front of the doors, his revolver pointed at the three of them. "Should I come back later?"

 _...Shit._ Tinsley slowly raised his hands. Banjo had gotten the draw on him.

Banjo nodded. "That's right, gentlemen, hands where I can see 'em." Ricky and Stephanos reluctantly put their hands up, and Banjo grinned. "Much obliged." He took a step forward. "We-ell, now, Ricky, I see you've managed to drag another poor soul into your mess. Luckily for you it'll all be over soon." He extended his free hand. "So how's about handing over that briefcase? Let's not make this any harder than it has to be."

Tinsley looked over at Ricky, who had a hard look in his eyes. _Don't do it_ , he thought fervently, hoping Ricky was thinking the same thing. _I know I made you promise last night to stop doing sneaky shit but I take it back…_

Ricky held up the briefcase. "Alright, Wyatt Earp, you got me," he said. "Put me away, kill me, do whatever you need to. But if I give you this, you'll have to promise to leave these two knuckleheads alone."

Tinsley looked at Ricky in shock. "No, idiot!" he blurted out. "What are you doing?!"

"I'm doing this your way, Tinz," Ricky said, slowly walking towards Banjo and holding out the briefcase. "Square."

Banjo raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, reaching for the briefcase. His gun lowered just a few inches. "Alright then. You've got a deal- _HURCKK!"_

Ricky moved like lightning, bringing the tip of his patent-leather shoe straight up into the man's crotch. As Banjo doubled over, Ricky darted around him and slipped through the doors.

Banjo collected himself and lurched towards the doors. His voice squeaked briefly. "Son of a-" 

A bullet pinged off the brass handle, inches away from Banjo's hand. Tinsley turned his head to see Stephanos staring down the lawman, a sleek black Beretta in his hand. Stephanos adjusted his spectacles. "I have no idea what's going on," he said.

"That's okay, you're doing a swell job." Tinsley had by this point drawn his own revolver, and he pointed it towards the Colt still in Banjo's hand. "Slide the gun over here and get back against the counter. Let's not make this any harder than it has to be."

Banjo complied, grinning. "Well, well. Looks like you've turned the tables on me."

Tinsley frowned. "Stef, check behind the counter and see if they have any tape back there."

"Oh, okay." Stephanos lowered his pistol and reached into his jacket. "I was just gonna use my handcuffs, but I'll see… uh, there are some paperclips..."

"No, actually, handcuffs would be better," Tinsley said, keeping his gun trained on Banjo's forehead until Stephanos had his hands securely behind his back, with the chain of the cuffs wrapped around one of the bars on the counter for good measure. "You department store guys get cuffs?"

Stephanos shrugged. "Shopkeepers are allowed to detain based on reasonable suspicion of theft." He blinked. "Though I've never had to use these for self-defense."

Banjo leaned back on the counter, looking back and forth between the two of them. "I am a federal agent, you know," he said. "And you two are actively impeding a federal investigation. At best."

"Huh?!" Tinsley said. "You call going around shooting people over a photo of your boss in bondage gear a 'federal investigation?!'" 

Banjo blinked. "Is that what they got on him? ...Well, different strokes, and all that." He shrugged. "Fine, I suppose that side of things is … less than official. But Ricky Goldsworth's arrest has been a long time coming."

"Ricky's a small-time crook," Tinsley said, feeling strangely defensive. "Since when do a couple of bad checks justify a manhunt?"

Banjo tilted his head. "Oh? You seem awful _concerned_ about a 'small-time crook' who just ran off and left y'all in the lurch."

Stephanos leaned up against the counter, a few feet away from Banjo. "Ricky did kind of take the briefcase and skip out," he said. "What are we gonna do if he doesn't come back?"

Tinsley gritted his teeth. "...We'll wait a few minutes," he said. "And if he doesn't come back here that probably means he went to the hotel." He wanted to believe Ricky wouldn't leave him behind just because he'd gotten what he wanted. After everything he'd said last night… he wanted to trust him. "Ricky has a habit of pretending to skip out and then coming right back. Whatever he's doing now, I'm sure he has his reasons."

Banjo lifted his eyebrows and smiled. It was an almost knowing look, and Tinsley didn't care for it at all. "I'm sure he does," Banjo said.

* * *

  
At that time, Ricky was in fact running full-tilt down the alley past the abandoned warehouse, and he had one pretty good reason. It was named 'Night Night' Di Nelli, and it had been waiting for him outside the bank in Banjo's massive black Ford.

"Shit shit shit and double shit," Ricky muttered, the roaring of the engine behind him ringing in his ears. It was getting closer. Obviously. It was a fucking car.

Ricky ran past a row of metal trash cans and toppled one into the street as he went. It didn't stop the car behind him, but it did give him some more time. Enough to emerge from the other side of the alley, run in front of the first car he saw, pull the hapless driver out by his collar and step on the gas before he was even fully behind the wheel. 

Tires squealed as the Ford rounded the corner. Ricky glanced at the briefcase, resting atop the seat beside him, then at the maze of traffic ahead of him. He wished Tinsley was here to tell him how stupid an idea this was. He'd meant to go back into the bank once Banjo was off his guard, but Di Nelli had effectively foiled that plan when he'd started trying to run him over. 

Ricky buckled the briefcase into the seat next to him and revved the engine, gripping the steering wheel. He'd just have to hope Tinsley could take care of himself. 

* * *

Banjo shifted his position, his black duster rustling slightly. "So," he said, "what exactly do you gentlemen plan on doing with me?"

Stephanos blinked. "Should we call the police?"

Tinsley sighed, shaking his head. "He _is_ the police." He honestly didn't know what to do, though. He hadn't expected to be in this situation.

Banjo grinned. "Well, y'all better make up your minds before that young lady who works here gets back from the little break I asked her to go out on. Should be any minute now."

Tinsley rubbed his forehead. "We should wait a little longer, see if Ricky comes back."

"...I don't think he's going to," Stephanos said quietly. When he saw Tinsley's expression, though, he held up his hands. "...I mean, he probably just went to the hotel, like you said."

Tinsley let out a breath, letting his hand move up from his forehead to rake through his hair. "...Yeah. You're probably right."

Banjo chuckled, shaking his head. "Y'know," he said, "I once tracked a rather notorious bank robber from Tulsa to Vermont."

"Yeah, 'Sloppy Joe' Riggs," Tinsley said, almost automatically. 

Banjo looked pleasantly surprised. "You know it? Shoot, that must'a been near fifteen years ago now."

"...I know all your old cases," Tinsley said. "I used to look up to you. Obviously I should've found a better role model." He frowned, folding his arms. "But what does Riggs have to do with anything?"

"Oh, I'm just making conversation," Banjo said, shrugging. "Ol' Riggs was damn hard to catch. I followed him around for the better part of two years. He'd leave me little notes and things. You know how these fellers are; they get a kick out of taunting law enforcement. He was a smart one, though, Riggs. Clever, well-spoken, nice penmanship. And popular, too. A modern-day Robin Hood, stealing from the banks to give to the poor. After a while I felt like I'd gotten to know the guy. Started to get to thinkin' that maybe he wasn't really that bad after all." The brim of his hat tipped forward as he lowered his gaze. "But, well… you know how the story ends."

Stephanos blinked. "I don't."

"When Riggs thought he was close to being caught, he went on a murder spree," Tinsley said slowly. "Killed three bank employees and two bystanders."

Banjo nodded. "That's right. And I shot him in a standoff a few hours later."

Tinsley narrowed his eyes. "I still don't see what you're getting at," he said, though he thought that maybe he did.

Banjo looked right at Tinsley. "I did a little reading up on you, detective. You served your country with distinction, and I respect that. That's what I'm trying to do, too, in my own way. I've never done anything that wasn't for the good of this nation." He raised an eyebrow. "But I think you've gotten yourself lost. You been chasing that Goldsworth so long you think you know him. But one day he'll snap. They all do."

Tinsley gritted his teeth. "To your first point, not everything this country does is worth it," he said. "And Ricky isn't Riggs. I … I trust him."

Banjo shook his head. "Don't be a fool, son!" he said. "Let me go, leave this city, and I promise no harm will come to you. You can go back to your quiet life, forget all this ever happened."

"...No," Tinsley said. He found he didn't even need to think it over. "Sorry, but no dice. I'm not gonna let you get to Ricky. He's..." _Important to me._ "...my friend."

Banjo was silent for a few moments. He seemed surprised. Then he sighed and shook his head. "Oh well," he said. "Can't say I didn't try." Then, suddenly, his hands were free. An unbent paperclip dropped from his fingers. He took a step forward, pulled back his fist, and struck Stephanos on the jaw.

It was a knock-out punch, and Stephanos collapsed before he could even get out a cry of surprise. Tinsley started to draw his revolver, but within seconds Banjo was on him, knocking it out of his hands. "I did tell you boys to be quick," he said with a wry grin.

Tinsley scrambled backwards, raising his arms in front of his face. Banjo’s fist glanced off his elbow, then pulled back and slammed into his ribcage, knocking the wind out of him. 

Tinsley doubled over, his back pressing against the doors. With a burst of strength, he pushed through them and out into the street. He stumbled a bit, then ran towards the alleyway next to the abandoned factory.

He wasn't an athlete, and Banjo was already through the doors and gaining on him. He wasn't much of a brawler, either, but it was becoming clear that he'd never make it if he tried to keep running. He started to slow down, letting Banjo close the distance between them. 

There was nothing for it. He'd have to turn around and fight.

* * *

  
Ricky dodged and weaved through traffic, ignoring all the shouts and blasted car horns and driving the little blue Packard coupe he'd stolen as fast as its engine would allow. The black Ford was always in his rearview mirror, sometimes slipping away, other times gaining dangerously.

Ricky's one advantage was maneuverability, and the fact that he'd never gotten a driver's license. It made him brazen. He'd been down two alleyways and a set of stairs already, and he'd even managed to knock over a small vegetable stand into the Ford's path. But the larger car had smashed right through it with little effort. Ricky was starting to despair of ever losing him, and the gas in the Packard was getting disconcertingly low.

So he headed back to the hotel. After a few more blocks, he glanced in the rearview mirror, and saw that the Ford had disappeared. He breathed a sigh. "Fuckin' finally," he muttered, turning the corner towards the Italian market.

There was a roaring from his left, and Ricky turned just in time to see the Ford barreling down a side street, straight towards him. He tried to swerve, but there was nowhere for him to go. He braced for the impact.

There was a screech, and the driver's side window of the Packard exploded as the Ford rammed the car, pushing it into the outer stalls of the market. Steam hissed and metal crunched as Di Nelli clambered out of the crumpled Ford, pistol in hand. He coughed, waving away the smoke from the wrecked Packard. "Give it over, Goldsworth," he said, approaching the driver's side of the car.

Di Nelli stopped, blinking. The passenger side door had been swung open, and the front of the blue car was completely empty.

* * *

  
Tinsley looked around as he ran, trying to find something in the worn brick walls of the alley that might give him any sort of advantage. 

In front of him were a few overturned trash cans, with garbage spilled across the street. Tinsley stepped over the refuse, then whipped around and kicked the trash into Banjo's face. Well, he tried to do that; the sodden newspapers never got quite that much lift. It was enough to surprise the lawman, though, and Tinsley used the momentum to crash into him, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a mess of limbs.

Tinsley crawled on top of Banjo and punched him in the face. Something cracked as his fist struck Banjo's nose, and blood spurted onto his knuckles.

Banjo gripped him by the shoulders and rolled over, slamming Tinsley's head into the ground and reversing their positions. Tinsley gritted his teeth as his skull hit the pavement and stars burst across his vision. It was all he could do to keep from passing out.

Banjo knelt over him, pressing his knee down on Tinsley's neck and pinning him to the street. He wiped the blood from his nose. "Shit… Now, I hate to do this, I really do," he said, reaching into the pocket of his duster. "You've made yourself a problem. But as far as regular law enforcement knows, you're an innocent civilian. So I can't just shoot you without raising questions."

Tinsley gasped for air, clawing at the man's leg, trying to free himself. But Banjo was an enormous man, and insanely strong. His knee pressed down a little harder on Tinsley's throat. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm not a sadist," he said. "This was just the best way to handle things." 

Banjo's hand emerged from his pocket, and in it was a syringe. Tinsley stiffened, his eyes widening. "Gk…!"

"Shh," Banjo said, pinning his left arm to the ground and rolling up his sleeve. He popped the cap off the syringe and gave it a few flicks. "Don't you worry, this is the good stuff. You'll be off to dreamland in no time."

Tinsley kicked desperately, trying to escape from under the man's weight, but it was no use. Fear gripped him. He felt himself starting to shake.

Banjo stuck the needle into his arm and pushed slowly down on the plunger. As the heroin spread through his veins, Tinsley's shaking intensified, then gradually ceased. After he stopped moving, Banjo kept him pinned down for a few moments more. Then he got up and dragged him across the street, propping him up against the wall. 

Tinsley tried to struggle, but his entire body felt limp, listless. His eyelids fluttered as he blinked, trying desperately to stay awake. With how much of the drug he'd been given, he knew that if he passed out, he'd never wake up again.

Banjo left the needle in his arm and stood up, looking down on him. He tipped his hat, in almost a salute of sorts, then turned and strode away.

Tinsley sat motionless against the wall, his vision swimming. His mind was slowly going blank as the fog of the heroin settled over him. It was getting hard to breathe. 

Someone was running down the alley now, a blurry shape, moving in slow-motion. Tinsley felt hands on his shoulders. He tried to lift his head, but he couldn’t summon the energy. His eyelids were almost closed. "...Ricky?" he murmured. Then he slowly sank into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to gyuumajo for guessing exactly what was gonna happen in this chapter! 
> 
> Also I deliberately did NOT tag this as 'major character death,' so… don't worry too much about our boy Tinsley. :P


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence & (involuntary) drug use.

Stephanos woke up on the floor of the bank, staring into the face of the blonde teller. "...you alright?" she was saying. "I've phoned an ambulance, they should be here any minute now…"

Stephanos slowly got to his feet, gently rubbing his jaw. "I'm… fine, thank you," he said, looking around the lobby and blinking in confusion. He was a little dizzy, and his head pounded. "What… happened? Where did that weird cowboy man go?" There was a familiar revolver lying on the ground a few feet away from him, and he picked it up and stuffed it into his coat. "Where's C.C.?"

The teller bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I don't know. That older man flashed a badge and asked me to leave for ten minutes, and when I came back you were lying on the floor here. I didn't see anyone else."

Stephanos staggered to the doors and pushed them open. The bright midday sunlight stabbed at his eyes. He blinked, holding up a hand to shield them and looking up and down the street. It was empty. He swallowed, an uneasy feeling starting to build in his chest. "C.C.?"

There was a metallic crash, and he whirled around. The sound had come from the alleyway next to the abandoned Bollman factory. He drew his pistol and ran towards the noise.

A stray cat had knocked over a trash can and was sniffing through the garbage. Stephanos' shoulders relaxed and he put away the gun. He'd never been one to resist the urge to pet a cat. "Hey little guy," he said, advancing slowly and squatting on the balls of his feet. The cat looked at him suspiciously, then meowed and jumped over the pile of garbage. It trotted further down the alleyway, towards a shadowy form slumped against the wall of the factory.

Stephanos squinted, then jumped to his feet. Was that…? "C.C.!" he shouted, his eyes widening as he rushed over to the figure. It was Tinsley alright, though he looked half-dead. There was blood spattered on his knuckles, chest, and face, and the beginnings of a purple bruise on his neck. He was slumped motionless against the wall, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes unfocused and nearly closed. Stephanos grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to move him upright. "C.C.! What happened? Talk to me!"

C.C. whimpered and blinked up at him. "...Ricky?" His skin was clammy and pale, his pupils contracted to pinpricks, and only now did Stephanos notice the needle stuck into the crook of his arm. 

Stephanos swallowed. "No, it's me, Stephanos," he said, pulling out the needle and tossing it away. "You're gonna be okay, just breathe…"

C.C.'s eyes rolled back and fluttered closed just as Stephanos began to hear sirens. He remembered the teller saying an ambulance was on its way. "Hey!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Over here! I need help! Hey!"

At the mouth of the alley, he could see a couple of ambulance attendants starting to jog towards him. Carefully, he laid C.C. on the ground and held the back of his hand close to his lips, now tinged blue. Nothing. Stephanos wiped his forehead. "Maybe it's better that you think I'm Ricky," he muttered, then tilted C.C.'s head back and started giving him rescue breaths. 

After the third one, C.C.'s chest rose. A few breaths later, and it kept rising. Stephanos leaned back and let out a sigh; C.C. was breathing on his own again. There was hope. Seconds later, the ambulance attendants arrived with a canvas stretcher, and Stephanos went with them as they loaded C.C.'s unconscious body into the back of the vehicle. They started driving, and Stephanos clasped his hands. He considered himself an optimist. But it was looking like this was going to require a miracle.

* * *

Ricky staggered into the Hotel Dagaccia's lobby, clutching the briefcase to his chest. His ears were ringing, and the left side of his face was covered in cuts from when the car's window had exploded. He was sure that slamming into the steering wheel had bruised a few of his ribs. But he was alive, at least.

He'd managed to sneak out the passenger's side door before Di Nelli could walk over and execute him. He knew he had maybe a few minutes before the trail of blood from the wreck led the mobster to him. He looked around wildly, his gaze landing on a small ledge above the doors. He had to stash the briefcase…

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Di Nelli burst through the hotel doors, a gun in each hand. When he arrived, the lobby was empty. Di Nelli growled, hunching his broad shoulders. "Goldsworth!" he called out, kicking over a potted plant. "I'm gettin' tired of playing hide and seek…"

Ricky dropped on him from the ledge, planting his heels into his back and pushing him face-first into the floor. He brandished Suky and held the blade to the mobster's neck. "Great, so was I," he said, huffing a little. He tried to cover his exhaustion with his usual bravado. "Now… you're gonna let go of the guns, and we're gonna go for a quick ride in that elevator up to my hotel room. When we get there I'm gonna tie you up and lock you in the bathroom until I can figure out what to do with you. And you're not gonna put up a fuss. Got it?"

Di Nelli glowered, scrunching up the scar on his face. "Why don't you just kill me, get it over with?"

"Don't tempt me," Ricky hissed, letting the blade bite into his skin just enough to draw blood. He dragged the mobster to his feet and moved the knife to the small of his back, poking him forward. "The only reason I haven't done it already is that Tins would be disappointed in me. Can't have that."

Di Nelli snorted. "You're goddamned _soft_. McClintock sure doesn't take prisoners."

Ricky scowled. "Stuff it!" He shoved Di Nelli into the elevator, angrily pressing the button for the third floor. He knew Stephanos and Tinsley could handle that overblown cowboy. He didn't need to be worried, or feel bad about it.

The fact that he _was_ worried was purely incidental. 

As soon as they made it to the hotel room and Di Nelli was secured, Ricky flopped down on the bed and lifted his shirt, poking at the bandage over his bullet wound. It was stained through with red. Not enough to make him think he was going to bleed out, though, so he lay back and closed his eyes.

He had the briefcase. He could go anywhere he wanted now. He was free. It didn't feel as good as he'd thought it would.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. He sat up, wincing, then crossed the room and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Ricky?" It was Stephanos. His voice sounded strained and tinny over the phone line. "How could you? How could you just run away like that?!"

"Woah, slow down," Ricky said, getting a little heated. "It wasn't my fault! Banjo had one of his goons waiting for me outside, I couldn't afford to stick around!" He let out a breath. "Anyway, you're talking to me, so it worked out, right?"

Stephanos went quiet for a moment. "...Listen, I'm at Columbia Presbyterian on 168th Street. If you care about C.C. at all then get here as fast as you can. He's… it's bad."

The phone slipped out of Ricky's hand. 

* * *

Maizey was standing on the bridge of the USS _Minestrone_ , her hands grasping the back of the navigator's chair. "Seaman Tinsley!" she said. "What are you doing here?"

Tinsley blinked. "Huh?" He was on the bridge, too, standing behind the binnacle, in his dress uniform, the one his mother had ironed for him the day he'd left for Hawaii and that he'd never worn again.

Mike Soup looked over at him from the captain's chair. "You were supposed to be fixing the Bernoulli Converter. We need it up and running to make it through that squall." He tilted his hat towards the thick windows, where a tropical storm was brewing, turning the sky green.

"And I need it to travel back in time and save my wife Jebra from an evil hot-dog witch," said Maizey. 

Thunder sounded in the distance. There was a pressure building in the air.

Next to him, Gene, who was french fries, chuckled. "That's right! If that converter isn't fixed soon, we'll all be _toast!_ Ho-hoo!"

Smeech the plupple plupped in agreement.

Tinsley swallowed, clenching his fists. "Gene, you truly are the most well-rounded and compelling character in existence."

"I sure am!" said Gene. A smile was frozen on his cardboard face. "You look like you know what you have to do."

"I do," said Tinsley. The ship was inside the squall now, and rain pelted against the windows and the bulkheads as green lightning flashed above. The booming thunder sounded like shells exploding in the air. Or… no, it was the shells that sounded like thunder. "I have to go to the engine room."

He left the bridge and ran. The halls stretched and contracted and shifted beneath and around him, becoming an incomprehensible Escher-esque labyrinth. They deposited him outside the airlock door.

Tinsley reached out and grasped the handle. His palms burned and blackened, but he didn't feel any pain. And this time, the door opened.

Now he was down in the Hole, deep in the bowels of the ship. The path forward was a thin steel catwalk snaking between tangles of asbestos-lined pipes, most of them wider than he was. The catwalk underneath him shook and tilted wildly as the ship rolled and pitched in the force of the squall. It was hotter than hell, and the air vibrated with the thrumming of the engines below, a mechanical heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Tinsley staggered down the catwalk, sliding down ladders and weaving between hissing valves and walls of dials. Before he'd made it very far, his boots began to splash through water. A few more steps forward, and it was up to his ankles. He stopped, standing still, watching the water slowly rise. It was ink-black and thick, like oil. 

He tried to turn back, but now he couldn't move. His feet were frozen in place. He knew then that he was going to die, but he felt strangely calm. He didn't resist. This was where he should have been, after all.

Then there was a figure at the other end of the catwalk. Tinsley blinked. "...Ricky? What are you doing here?"

Ricky didn't say anything. The water was rising around him, too, and it was already up to his knees.

Now Tinsley was struggling to move. What the hell was that idiot doing, he was gonna drown… The water rose up to his waist, then to his chest.

Ricky, being shorter, was up to his neck in it. He swam forward, then grabbed onto Tinsley's shoulders. He was saying something now, but the words were lost in the thrumming of the engines. Tinsley gripped his hands. The unnatural sense of calm was gone now. He had to get them out of here. 

But the water was still rising. It was over both of their heads now, and Tinsley felt it rush into his lungs. He couldn't breathe…

Under the water, Ricky pulled him in close. His warm, smooth hand cupped his cheek, and he kissed Tinsley on the forehead. It felt… real. And slowly the noise and the ship faded, and then the water, and then everything else, and Tinsley slept, undreaming.

* * *

Ricky arrived at the hospital as quickly as threatening the lives of every member of his cabbie's family could get him there. He was a mess, with a bloodied face, disheveled hair, and wild eyes, and if it hadn't been for the latter he would have been dragged off to the emergency room himself by a pair of concerned nurses. They did convince him to stop and allow a few gauze pads to be taped to his cheek in exchange for directions to the second floor.

The men's ward was a bleak, high-ceilinged room with a yellow tile floor and white walls lined with white wire beds. Between the beds were narrow windows, letting in a meager light from the rapidly greying sky outside. Stephanos was standing by the side of the third bed on the right. He looked worn, and the smile he gave Ricky when he saw him was strained. "I'm glad you came," he said.

Ricky barely glanced at him. His focus was on the man lying prone on the bed. Tinsley's eyes were closed, and there was a mask over the lower half of his face. It looked almost like a gas mask, with a long plastic tube connected to a humming machine. Ricky's breath hitched. "How is he? What the hell happened?!"

Stephanos let out a quiet sigh. "It's been touch and go. Banjo injected him with some kind of drug." He looked over at Ricky, a hint of accusation in the expression. "He was asking for you when I found him."

Ricky gripped the wire rail at the foot of the bed, so hard his knuckles started to turn white. "God, I really screwed up," he muttered. "This is all my fault…!"

Seeing Tinsley lying there, motionless, pale as a corpse… it felt wrong. Ricky couldn't take it. It made him feel sick. It was because of him. And there was nothing he could do about it. 

...No. Screw that. There _was_ something he could do. There was a faint buzzing in the back of his mind, like the beginning rumbles of thunder outside. He could end this. And he could make the bastards pay.

Ricky crossed over to the side of the bed and placed his hands on Tinsley's shoulders. He rubbed his thumb against the skin at the base of the detective's neck, realizing with some surprise that his eyes were misty. "...You're gonna hate me when you wake up," he murmured. He leaned forward and kissed Tinsley on the forehead.

Then he straightened up, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Stef," he said, "keep watching over him for me, okay?" 

Stephanos gave him a concerned look. "You're planning something dangerous, aren't you?"

"Not really bothering with a plan. But there's definitely gonna be danger."

Stephanos looked like he wanted to try to dissuade him, but eventually he sighed and reached into his coat. "Then you should take this," he said, and pulled out a gun. It was Tinsley's revolver.

Ricky took it by the handle, turning it over reverently in his hands before stuffing it into his waistband. "Thanks. But you misunderstood." There was a hard look in his eyes. "The danger is gonna be _me_."

* * *

'Night Night' Di Nelli had been sitting in the hotel bathroom for two hours, and he had very nearly managed to free himself from the many layers of bandage tape wrapped around his ankles and wrists by the time Ricky Goldsworth returned. The con man stalked up to him, pulled out a knife, and cut the tape from his ankles. "Get up," he said, roughly pulling him to his feet. "Tell me how you get in contact with Banjo."

Di Nelli looked at him with wide eyes. The expression on Ricky's face was dark, and tense with coiled rage, like an overstretched spring about to snap. "I'd call him," Di Nelli said, slowly and carefully. "He gave me a phone number. But usually he's the one who contacts me. I don't exactly like the guy."

Ricky didn't respond to that. Instead he dragged Di Nelli out of the bathroom and over to the phone, leaving his hands still bound behind his back. "What's the number?"

Di Nelli gave it to him, and Ricky dialed, holding the receiver up to Di Nelli's ear. "Tell him you killed me and got the briefcase," he said. "You wanna meet up. Alone. Somewhere private and out of the way. I'll let you decide where that is."

Again, Di Nelli complied. Banjo picked up on the second ring, and Di Nelli fed him exactly what Ricky had told him to say. The marshal seemed to buy it, though it was impossible to tell with him. Di Nelli gave the meeting place as an abandoned dockside warehouse frequented by the Lucianos. If he could make it there, maybe some other member of the family would be there, and he'd be saved. Maybe... 

The way Ricky Goldsworth was looking at him made him extremely nervous. He'd seen that kind of expression once before, on the face of a man who, ten minutes later, would walk into a diner and shoot a rival boss and his entire family to death, firing so many rounds into the bodies that the police had to use dental records to identify them. It wasn't an expression of any human emotion. It was pure violence, boiling beneath the surface, only waiting for something to set it loose.

When the meeting was set, Ricky hung up the phone. He turned to look Di Nelli in the eye. The jackknife was back in his hand. "I would've been there," he said, his tone strangely earnest. "I would have." He moved towards him. "If it hadn't been for you…"

Di Nelli ripped the tape from his wrists with a desperate burst of strength and stumbled backwards. But it was too late to escape. He knew that even as he tried to fight back, swinging his fist towards Ricky's head.

Ricky simply let the punch hit him as he rushed forward, knocking Di Nelli back onto the bed. The buzzing in his head was back. It was rage. It was overpowering. He straddled the mobster, and Suky's blade flashed as he raised the knife over his head. A guttural scream burst from his throat, and he brought the knife down, stabbing it viciously into Di Nelli's broad chest. He stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed.

When it was over, the walls and ceiling of the hotel room were sprayed with red. Di Nelli lay still on the bed, a dark pool of blood spreading out underneath him and sinking into the sheets. The window opened, and Ricky clambered down the fire escape one last time and disappeared into the alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know what they did for opioid overdoses before naloxone was invented in the '60s, and I started writing this fic with the assumption that I would find out, but unfortunately my research on that yielded nothing. (So maybe the answer is 'nothing'…?) But I did learn that oxygen therapy has been used since 1885 for respiratory depression, which is one of the ways to die from an OD, so I extrapolated. This is probably totally inaccurate. Do NOT try at home.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence, blood.

Maizey knocked lightly on the door of room 212. "Professor? I heard you were having trouble with your ceiling…?"

The door opened on a short bearded man in spectacles and a red bow-tie. "Ah, Miss Maizey! There seems to be some sort of leak. It's, ah … fascinatingly viscous."

Maizey's eyebrows scrunched together. "Huh… Okay. Mind if I come in and give it a look?"

"Please do!" The professor stepped back, allowing her to step into the room. "It's just up there," he said, pointing to a dark splotch in a corner of the ceiling. "Oh, I see it's already gotten worse since we've been talking… it wasn't dripping like that before."

Maizey held out a hand; sure enough, a small dark drop fell from the splotch and landed on her palm. She raised her hand to her face to get a closer look, and blanched. "Oh my god…"

The professor leaned towards her, standing on his tip-toes. "Golly… is that blood?!" He looked up towards the ceiling. "Seems like we should check on my upstairs neighbor."

"You should stay here," Maizey said, heading for the door. She took the stairs up to the next floor, fumbling for the master key in her pocket. She knew this hotel like the back of her hand, and she knew exactly whose room that was.

Room 312 looked like a scene from a nightmare. Maizey actually had to take a step back to catch her breath; she'd never seen so much blood. 

There was a dark-suited figure splayed on the bed. Maizey hesitated, then stepped into the room and made her way over to the bed. 

She was surprised to see that the figure wasn't either of the room's usual inhabitants. She recognized him from his scarred face as a Luciano soldier, the one who always hung around with Legs. His chest was a torn, bloody mess. Which was why Maizey was even more surprised when the man drew in a ragged breath.

Maizey rushed to the side of the bed, fumbling to pull some sheets up to the man's chest to maybe stop some of the bleeding. Somehow he was still alive, but it was clear that he wouldn’t be for long. He wheezed, and the wounds in his chest made a horrible sucking sound. He seemed to be trying to say something. Maizey leaned in close. "What is it?"

The man gave a wet gasp. "Gck… Golds… worth…" He grabbed Maizey's wrist with a faltering grip. "There’s a… warehouse… Navy yard…"

Maizey nodded, waiting for the man to continue, but that was all he could get out. He gave one last wheezing breath before his grip on her wrist slackened and his eyes clouded over. Maizey closed them for him with the tips of her fingers, then sat back, feeling a dazed. 

Eventually, she got up from the bed and headed for the bathroom to wash the blood off her hands. She supposed she would have to call the police.

* * *

  
Tinsley woke up. That was surprising.

He blinked, slowly returning to consciousness. He felt _horrible_ \- his head pounded, his limbs were aching and heavy, and he was covered in sweat. Though unpleasant, it was a familiar feeling, and he knew what it meant. The drug was fading from his system. He'd live. That was surprising, too.

He let out a quiet groan, then blinked again, only now realizing that he didn't know where he was. He carefully lifted his head; even that small motion made him feel queasy. It looked like he was in a hospital ward. Someone had pulled a chair up to the side of his bed, and Stephanos was curled up in it, asleep.

Tinsley tried to lean back down slowly, but a sudden spasm in his leg sent the springs on the bed squeaking, and Stephanos woke up with a start. "Ngh… Oh! C.C.!" He shot up out of the chair and stood by the side of the bed. "You're awake!"

Tinsley gave him a tired smile. "...Looks like it."

"How are you feeling?"

"Not all that peachy ... to be honest with you." Tinsley tried to laugh it off, but ended up having to hold a hand over his mouth and fight down a wave of nausea.

Stephanos looked concerned. "Should I get the doctor?"

"...Nah, that's okay," Tinsley said after taking a few deep breaths. "I'll live."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Stephanos sat back down in the chair. "Thank God. You really had us worried, you know."

Tinsley paused. "...Us?"

Stephanos immediately clammed up. And it was obvious from his face that he was about to try something he didn't do very often; lie. "...Oh, I just meant that as an expression."

"Stef."

"What?"

"C'mon. We're both detectives."

Stephanos squirmed, but caved. "...Okay, fine. Ricky was here, too. But he left."

Tinsley blinked, trying to process this through the haze of his aching head. "Ricky … was here?" He dimly remembered seeing Ricky, in a dream, maybe, but the details had already faded, leaving him only with a vague sense of unease. "Wh- Well, where'd he go?"

Stephanos looked away. "No clue. But he was pretty messed up." He shrugged. "That's why I didn't want to tell you. I … got the impression he was going to do something stupid."

"...Shit." Tinsley sat up, gritting his teeth as the nausea swept over him again. He recovered enough to glare at Stephanos. "And you let him?!"

Stephanos held up his hands. "Was I supposed to try to stop him?! He probably would've stabbed me or something!" He gave Tinsley a few seconds to realize that was a fair point before continuing. "Anyway, I'm sure he's fine. He has your gun."

" _Ricky_ has a _gun_?!" Tinsley groaned, gripping his pounding head in his hands. He would love to lie back down and sweat it out until his body no longer felt like a seasick bag of rocks. But he already knew he wasn't going to be able to do that. He swept his long legs over the side of the bed and started to struggle to his feet.

"Woah, what do you think you're doing?" Stephanos said, leaping up and catching him by the arm.

Tinsley tried to shrug him off. "Look, I know this sounds like a bad idea, because it is. But I have to go after him."

"No you don't," Stephanos said, his eyebrows knitting together. "You really don't."

Tinsley shrugged, giving a tired half-smile. "...I mean, I've already put myself through some serious shit just to keep that hot-headed idiot alive. It's a little late to give up now. Sunk cost and all that, y'know."

"I think the 'sunk cost' thing is a logical _fallacy_ ," Stephanos said, but he seemed to realize that Tinsley had made up his mind. He sighed and scratched his head. "...You two nutcases really are attached at the hip, aren't you?"

Tinsley was too beat to bother trying to deny it. "Yeah. At this point, I'd say we're a package deal." He let Stephanos help him get his feet back under him again, then started walking with shaky steps towards the door at the end of the ward. He was sure he wouldn't be able to do much in his condition. But wherever Ricky was, he had to be there. Whether it was to stop him or help him didn't matter anymore. "If Banjo's gettin' one of the Crime Pals, he's gonna get the other one, too."

* * *

  
When Banjo McClintock arrived at the Lucianos' Navy yard warehouse, the thunderstorm that had been rumbling for the past few hours had burst into a heavy downpour. Sheets of rain poured down on the skeleton hulls of the ships in dry dock and pattered off the roof of his Ford. He hummed to himself as he parked the car, then stepped out into the rain.

The warehouse was a dilapidated building with rusted walls and a tin roof. There was a steel door set into its front face, hanging partly open, and Banjo jogged towards it, holding a hand over his Stetson; his hat wasn't meant to be rained on like this. At least his job here would be done soon, and he'd be able to leave this terrible East Coast weather behind, go back to his horse farm and his budding art collection. He smiled quietly to himself as he pushed through the door.

Inside, the warehouse was dark and mostly empty, with the only light filtering through large square windows near the ceiling. The sound of Banjo’s boots echoed as he strode into the large, abandoned space. He looked at his watch as he walked; he was a few minutes late. "Di Nelli? Where're you at, now?"

Aside from the echo of his own voice, no response. Banjo started to hum, strolling towards the wall. In the dark, he could vaguely make out a few rows of steel shelves, littered with contraband, no doubt. He trailed his fingers along the shelf, then paused. 

On the floor in front of him was a small puddle of water. He looked up. On the top shelf, several feet above his head, one of the shadows looked a little darker than the rest; a little fuzzier around the edges. Banjo raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smile, still humming. Slowly, he reached for his gun.

The shadow detached itself from the shelf above and swooped down on him. In the dim light, there was a silvery flash.

* * *

  
There was a police car parked outside the Hotel Dagaccia when Tinsley and Stephanos arrived, sitting in the pouring rain with its lights on. The two detectives rushed into the hotel and found Maizey in the front lobby, watching a pair of uniformed officers head for the elevators. She fixed Tinsley with an accusatory glare and walked over to him, pulling him into a corner. "You better have a damn good explanation for me," she hissed, keeping her voice down. Despite her aggressive tone, she seemed shaken.

Tinsley blinked, then blinked some more. His head hurt too much to try to understand what she was talking about. "Have you seen Ricky around here?"

Maizey looked surprised. "Have I seen…? Jesus… You don't know, do you?"

"No, but I'd like to find out. Whatever it is, I can take it."

Maizey looked away, shaking her head. She didn't say anything for a while, to the point where Tinsley wasn't sure if she'd continue. Finally, she got it out. "There’s a dead mobster in your room. I mean, I've seen dead bodies before, but… god, there was so much blood. It was like a slaughterhouse in there."

Tinsley's head was spinning, and he wasn't entirely sure it was down to withdrawal. "Where is he? Where's Ricky?"

Maizey sighed, making a vague gesture. "...If I had to guess, some warehouse in the Navy yard. That's the last thing the dead guy said before he croaked." 

"Warehouse… Navy yard…" Tinsley held a hand over his mouth, suddenly feeling nauseous. He stumbled back. "I… I have to go, I… God Maizey, I'm sorry!"

"I don't think an apology's gonna cover it!" Maizey snapped. She shut her eyes for a moment, grimacing, then shook her head. "...I haven't told the cops anything," she said quietly. "Get out of here. Do whatever you need to do."

Tinsley nodded, then turned and lurched towards the entrance, brushing past a protesting Stephanos. He burst through the doors and started jogging down the street in the rain, chasing down the first cab he saw. He flopped into the back seat, barely even noticing that the rain had already soaked him through. His struggling body was on autopilot. "...Why'd you do it, Ricky?" he mumbled under his breath, curling in on himself and shivering as the cab sped through the streets. "Why'd you have to…?" 

He felt sick.

* * *

  
  
Lightning flashed outside, briefly casting the warehouse in harsh white light. It lit up Ricky's face as he jumped from the shelf, knife in hand, and slashed at Banjo. His bared teeth were bright white, like a shark's.

Banjo was showing his teeth, too, in a grin. Despite his size he had good reflexes; he managed to step back and avoid the brunt of the blade, though the tip of it grazed his chest and left a bright red line on his shirt. He took a few steps back and met Ricky's gaze. "Well, knock me down with a feather. You've got guts, Goldsworth. I 'spose I assumed you'd skipped town."

"Shut up!" Ricky snarled, barely coherent. The sight of Banjo filled him with such white-hot anger that he was seeing spots, his head buzzing with static. He took another swipe at Banjo, who held his arms up in front of his face as he dodged, the blade slicing his forearm. Ricky drew the knife back for another strike. "You fucking bastard!"

Banjo blocked his swing, grabbing his wrist and punching him in the ribs. Ricky hissed and twisted his arm free, but not before Banjo landed another punch to his stomach. The blow struck Ricky's bullet wound, and he cried out and stumbled backwards, doubling over. Banjo took the opportunity to disengage and duck behind a row of shelves, out of sight.

Ricky seethed, pressing his stomach with his free hand and striking out blindly with his knife, knocking boxes off the shelves. "Coward!" he shouted. "Come out, damn it!" He slowed down a little, scanning the shelves for movement. "I need to see the expression on your face when I rip your fucking throat open!"

He heard a slight rustle, and reacted just quickly enough for the gunshot that followed to rip into his right shoulder instead of his chest. He dropped to the floor, scuttling away from where he'd seen the flash of the gun, pressing his back up against a row of boxes.

Banjo's voice rang out from across the aisle. "A visceral image, to be sure. What's got you so riled up, now?"

"You know what!" Ricky growled, clutching briefly at his shoulder. In his state he hardly felt the pain, but he was losing his grip on his knife. His other hand fumbled inside his jacket for Tinsley's revolver. 

There was a chuckle. "Well, frankly, no, I don't." There was a flash and another shot rang out, this time punching a hole in the box near Ricky's ear. Banjo waited for a few moments, then started talking to him again. "Is it because I'm trying to kill you? Shoot, you're a professional, ain't'cha? It's just business."

Ricky knew he shouldn't be giving away his position, but he couldn’t stop himself. "Bullshit!" he shouted back. "If it was just business you'd've left Tinsley alone!" Speaking the name made his voice crack. He was shaking with rage as he flicked off the safety on the revolver. "It's rotten feds like you that don't know how to play fair!"

There was a sound of surprise from across the aisle. "...Well, I'll be," Banjo said. He sounded genuinely taken aback; maybe even sympathetic. There was no smooth retort this time.

Ricky gritted his teeth. That was fine; he'd had enough chatter. He jumped to his feet and darted across the aisle, another bullet tearing through his arm. He kept going, and whipped around the corner of the shelves, holding Tinsley's revolver in a white-knuckled death grip.

Banjo towered in front of him, his legs askance, the barrel of his Colt pointed directly at Ricky's forehead. The brim of his Stetson cast his face in shadow. "...Never figured you for a gunman," he said. "Have I seen that revolver somewhere before?"

Ricky's finger twitched on the trigger. "Shut up and die."

"Easy now," Banjo said, not flinching. "It may not be high noon, but this is what's known as a standoff. You shoot me, I shoot you. Maybe I'll even shoot you first. I've got a lot more practice."

"I don't care," Ricky growled. He really didn't. At this point, he had nothing left to lose except his own skin. Small price to pay.

Banjo's finger tightened around the trigger. "I'm warning you." For the first time, there was a tinge of hesitation in his voice. It seemed he'd been expecting Ricky to back down. "Don't be a fool."

Ricky smiled. It was a cold expression, his teeth bared, his eyes black. "Way too late on that one, pal," he said.

From off to his right, there was a metallic 'bang,' and light flooded into the warehouse as the door swung open. Draped over the doorframe was Tinsley, breathing heavily, his suit rumpled to unprecedented levels and wet hair plastered to his forehead. "Ricky!" he shouted, whipping his head around, staring blindly into the darkness. "Whatever you're doing … stop it!"

Banjo let out a short hiss, blinking in the light from the door. He turned away slightly, just enough, and Ricky fired. The shot hit Banjo in the side, and he gave a shout of surprise, stumbling backwards. Ricky shot him again, in the stomach this time, and the Colt dropped from his hands and clattered to the floor.

Ricky tossed aside the revolver and closed the distance between them, tackling Banjo to the ground. Banjo tried to push him off, but the adrenaline had Ricky operating at almost superhuman levels of strength. He grabbed him by the shoulders and pinned him to the floor. 

Banjo glared up at him, gasping and gritting his teeth. "I warned that boy … about you," he said, the corner of his mouth drawing upwards in a smirk. "You're only …proving me right..."

Ricky stared back, his expression cold. "Those are some terrible last words," he said, drawing Suky from his pocket and flicking open the blade. "Do you want a do-over?"

Banjo only laughed. He laughed so hard that his shoulders shook, so hard that Ricky almost didn't notice the slight movement, that he was trying to wriggle away. Ricky brought the knife down hard into his chest, choking off the noise. "...Not this time," he said, pulling the blade back out and raising it above his shoulder for another strike. Banjo’s fingers clawed at his chest, his eyes slowly clouding over. Ricky smiled, but there was no joy in it. "This time, I win."

* * *

  
  
"Ricky!" Tinsley stepped into the warehouse just as the two shots rang out. "Shit…" he muttered, hand automatically going to his jacket before he remembered his gun wasn't there. The shots had come from somewhere to his right, so he took off in that direction, his long legs stumbling over themselves in the dark.

The shadows seemed to stretch into forever in this place. Or maybe that was just him. Tinsley ran, but not too fast. He needed to find Ricky, but was deathly afraid of what would happen when he did.

Despite his blind stumbling, the moment didn't take long to arrive. His foot kicked against a small, hard object, sending it clattering across the floor. He picked it up; it was his own revolver, still warm, with four rounds left in the chamber. Tinsley gripped the gun and rounded the corner. 

There was Ricky, a dark shape against the dim grey light filtering through the warehouse's dirty windows. He was crouched, straddling a body. A knife was in his hand. And he was covered in blood.

Tinsley held a hand over his mouth, swaying on his feet. This time, he really thought he might throw up. "God… Ricky…"

Ricky slowly pushed himself off the body, the knife dropping to the floor. Blood oozed from bullet holes in his right shoulder and bicep. He didn't seem to have the strength to stand. So he sat back, with his legs splayed, and looked up.

"Hey, Tins," he said quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao sorry to end on a cliffhanger again, but I had to split this chapter up. It's the dramatic conclusion, after all!
> 
> Also R.I.P. Banjo; your terrible feral cowboy accent will be missed. By me. Because I really enjoyed writing it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood.
> 
> Also, some really sappy writing. Strap in, folks.

Stephanos wrapped up the last of the bloody sheets and stuffed it into a plastic garbage bag. "So the police are out of here already?"

"Yeah." Maizey sighed, wiping her brow with her forearm and looking down at the ruined mattress. "They chalked it up to some gangland execution and left. New York's finest." She turned to Stephanos. "Thanks for helping with the cleanup. I wouldn't want Jebra to have to see all this."

"It's no problem," Stephanos said. He wasn't a big fan of blood and didn't particularly enjoy having to see this, either, but he felt like it was the least he could do after having sent C.C. and Ricky here in the first place. His toe scuffed against something stashed under the bed, and he reached down to pull it out. It was an alligator-skin briefcase with a gold handle. "...Oh no." He held up the briefcase. "Uh, just to warn you … they'll probably be back for this."

Maizey glared at him. "No way," she said. "You can stand outside and give it to them. If either of those hooligans sets one foot over the threshold of this hotel I will blow his brains out." 

Stephanos gulped, remembering her signature double-barelled shotgun. "Right. Yes. Understandable." He gripped the briefcase by its handle and let it drop to his side. 

He felt guilty about all of this. He should have known that Ricky was out for blood; the man had told him so himself. He should've done something to stop him. But… having been there, having seen what had been done to C.C…. heck, having been whacked in the head himself, he could see how he'd end up a little sympathetic.

"...He did have his reasons, I guess," he said quietly. "From what I understand the guy was following him around trying to kill him, so… And I mean, I can't imagine what I would do if someone I cared about got hurt like that."

" _You’d_ call the police like a good Christian citizen,” Maizey said, then thought about it for a bit. “...I guess you have a point, though. If any man laid a hand on Jebra they'd never be able to identify his remains." She bent down over one of the garbage bags and tied it shut, then hoisted it over her shoulder. "But at least I'd have the decency not to ruin an innocent hotel owner's mattress. Now come on; let's get this stuff out to the curb."

Stephanos set the briefcase down on the desk, picked up a garbage bag, and followed her out into the hallway. He thought he heard a faint 'clang' from outside, like something moving on the fire escape, but when he turned around to look, the window was empty.

* * *

Outside, the rain was still pouring down in sheets. It rattled off the warehouse's tin roof, resounding inside the mostly empty building as a dull, constant roar.

The roar pounded in Tinsley’s head as he stared down the aisle at Ricky, at the body slumped at the end of a smeared trail of blood. He felt sick. He'd been to war, for chrissake, he'd seen worse, but somehow this… this was different.

The revolver in his hand was pointing at Ricky before he even realized his arm had moved.

Ricky looked up at him from where he sat splayed on the floor, gripping his shoulder. "...You're alive," he said, his voice soft with relief. "You okay? You look like shit."

Tinsley's eyes narrowed. "...I've been better."

There was silence between them for a few moments. Then Ricky let out a quiet huff. "Are you gonna shoot me, or just stand there?"

"Why'd you do it?" Tinsley demanded, taking a step forward. "Huh? You told me you weren't a killer. You promised we'd get out of this the right way..." He paused, then shook his head. "...Y'know what, that's on me. I was stupid enough to think you meant it."

"I did!" Ricky said hotly. "I did mean it! And I tried to stick by it, really!" He tried to push himself up to his feet, but fell back down to the ground, his knees landing in the puddle of blood. He winced, then looked up at Tinsley. "But I meant it for _you_ , you big idiot! And you almost _died_ and I..." His voice cracked. "You really think I could give two shits about the 'right way,' or whatever, when you're lying in a hospital bed like a fucking vegetable and the _bastard_ who put you there is still walking around enjoying himself?!"

"...What?" Tinsley blinked, stumbling slightly. He waved his free hand vaguely in the air. "You're telling me all of this was some kind of … revenge spree?!"

"That was the idea!"

"Jesus Christ!" Tinsley held his hand to his forehead. The roaring in his ears just kept getting louder. "Why on earth would you do something so… so stupid?!"

"I was angry!" Ricky said, and tried again to get up. "I was so mad, madder than I've ever been in my life! I couldn't let him get away with it!"

"But _why?!_ " Tinsley insisted. "You've always looked out for yourself. You could've been killed too, y'know! So why the hell do you care so much?!"

Ricky finally managed to struggle to his feet. "Because _I love you_ , you jackass!"

Tinsley froze. For a few long, awful seconds, the only sound in the warehouse was the steady drum of the rain on the roof. "You…?" Tinsley began, then trailed off, unable to say the words.

"Goddammit Tinsley," Ricky growled, stepping forward. "You are the worst detective in the whole world."

Tinsley's thoughts jumped back to that night in the club, when they'd stood so close to each other, Ricky's lips pressed against his own… to that night outside the hotel, when they'd almost… His breath hitched, but he kept his grip on the gun.

Standing before him now, Ricky was ragged and bloodstained and laid bare. So different from how he'd looked in the dim green light of Tinsley's office, when he'd popped back into his life and started wrecking everything he thought he wanted out of it. 

And Tinsley had let him do it. He'd spent this entire trip wondering why - why he'd agreed to help Ricky out, why he kept covering for him, why he felt so comfortable around him… But he knew. Maybe he'd known all along, and he just couldn't bring himself to admit it. 

Tinsley walked forward, his shoes sticking slightly in the drying blood, until the barrel of his revolver was mere inches away from Ricky's forehead. Ricky had just butchered two men. It was _wrong_ , for god's sake. Even if they were horrible people who were trying to kill him… this definitely wouldn't hold up as self-defense in court, he shouldn't be condoning… shouldn't be so willing to… His hand was shaking.

Slowly, gently, Ricky reached out and held his hand. The touch was warm and tender, and it stilled his tremors, just as it had all those times before when his fits had woken him in the night. All those little moments when their hands had brushed together and Tinsley's heart had jumped in his chest...

Tinsley made a soft noise, like a whimper, and lowered the gun, letting it drop to the ground. The truth was, Banjo had been a twisted son of a bitch, and he couldn't pretend to blame Ricky anymore. He just couldn't. Not with this feeling rising inside him, a feeling he was finally too broken down to ignore, that he might finally be able to name...

He leaned forward and buried his face in Ricky's uninjured shoulder. His eyes stung, and he mumbled into the fabric of Ricky's jacket. "...I think I ... love you, too."

They stood there like that for a good long while, Ricky seemingly in shock, with Tinsley draped uselessly over him, half-embracing, both too worn and exhausted to do more than lean on each other. Eventually, Ricky spoke, breathless. "...Well, shit."

Tinsley pulled back a little and wheezed out a laugh. "That's all you've got to say?"

"Shut _up_ , Tins," Ricky said, and before he could get out another word Tinsley cupped his hands around his head and pulled him into a kiss.

It wasn't particularly good at first; Tinsley was still a little jittery, and his nose poked into Ricky's cheek as his lips smushed themselves artlessly against his mouth. When Ricky finally realized what was happening, he reached up and placed his hand on Tinsley's neck, stabilizing him, pulling him in. They kissed hungrily, leaning into each other, Tinsley's fingers raking through Ricky's hair. Ricky's mouth tasted like blood and salt, and he kissed Tinsley like he was trying to swallow him, nipping at his upper lip with his teeth. With or without knowing it, they had both been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Tinsley eventually drew back, his hands moving to grip Ricky's shoulders, and started pressing kisses into his neck, eliciting soft moans. "Oh… oh geez, that hurts…!"

Tinsley let go immediately and stepped backwards. "Sorry..." He looked down at his hands, one of which was now wet with blood, and suddenly remembered that Ricky had two bullet holes in his shoulder. "Shit! Ricky! You're wounded!"

Ricky shrugged, swayed a little, and tried to pull Tinsley back towards him with his good arm. "They're just flesh wounds."

Tinsley batted him away and struggled out of his suit jacket, untucking his shirt and ripping off strips from the bottom. "Unbelievable,” he muttered. “You realize you could have bled out while boodling with Schaumburg, Illinois' worst kisser three years running?"

"...Not as bad as dying on the john," Ricky said, slowly settling back down to sit on the floor. "Only three years?"

"Yeah, somebody entered a dead fish and I lost the title." Tinsley crouched to pull Ricky's jacket off of him, then tore open his shirt and started wrapping the fabric around his shoulder. "Christ. You’re an unrepentant idiot, you know that?”

“You bet I am, big guy,” Ricky said, smiling. They’d slipped so easily back into their usual banter, but it seemed to mean something more this time. They were gonna stick together. The Crime Pals were back in business.

They took their time cleaning up. Luckily, no one from the federal government or the Luciano family showed up to bother them. Though the mafia’s ownership of this particular warehouse was convenient; opening a few of the boxes had revealed them to be full of either cocaine or very helpful supplies, such as plastic tarps, duct tape, and cinder blocks. Ricky had also found a proper medical kit, and he allowed Tinsley to patch him up for real before he turned to the slightly more gruesome task of what to do with Banjo’s body. 

Thankfully, Ricky didn't ask for help with that part, so Tinsley simply turned his back and collapsed against one of the shelves. He slid to the floor and stretched his limbs, taking some time to let his system recover and trying not to think about the plastic rustling behind him.

His eyes closed once or twice while he waited, and he was about to nod off when he started to hear grunts of pain and a heavy dragging sound. He grimaced and slowly got to his feet. "When I turn around, I better not see you trying to move that massive dead weight by yourself with one arm."

There was a soft 'thud.' It was somehow the guiltiest 'thud' Tinsley had ever heard. He sighed and turned to face Ricky, his gaze avoiding the large corpse-shaped bundle at his feet. "Alright. Let's get this over with."

It was still raining when they dragged the body out of the warehouse. The front door was only a few feet of concrete dock away from the river, so they didn't have to go far. Even still, it was too much for both of them, exhausted as they were, and they had to stop for a moment at the edge of the water. Tinsley wiped some of the rain from his face and looked around at the ships that loomed in dry dock, rain pelting off their hulls and the barrels of their guns. The sight of their sweeping lines brought back memories, and he could feel the weight of his past on him; of people who were gone, of time lost to the haze of a drug that he was going to have to fight off all over again, of lonely hours spent in his West Virginia office, hiding in the middle of nowhere, with little more to look forward to than disappointing desperate fathers and slipping peacefully out of existence whenever he decided he'd had enough. For better or for worse, there would be no going back to any of that now. He actually felt relieved.

After waiting a few seconds to get their breath back, Ricky and Tinsley picked the body back up. Tinsley swung his arms, and together they tossed the bundle over the side of the dock, where it plummeted into the water and immediately sank. They both watched the ripples on the water for a few moments, then turned to look at each other. "...Wanna say anything?" Ricky asked, looking a bit uncomfortable, rain dripping down his face and washing away the blood.

Tinsley shook his head. "Nah. Let's just go back inside."

As they walked back towards the door, Ricky paused. "...Shit."

"What now?"

"I left the briefcase at the hotel."

"..."

"..."

"...Seriously?"

"Yeah." Ricky tipped his hat brim over his eyes, the way he always did when he didn't want to meet Tinsley's gaze. Thanks to the rain, it sagged pathetically. "We have to go back and get it."

Tinsley sucked in a deep breath and let it out through his nostrils, holding his forehead. "...I can't believe I kissed you," he muttered, then started walking inland down the dock.

* * *

By the time they made it back to the hotel, the rain was finally starting to clear up, slowing to a misty drizzle. Stephanos was waiting for them outside, under the awning. "...I ought to have you arrested," he said, glowering at Ricky.

Ricky tilted his head, his hands in his pockets. "You're welcome to. But you won't."

Stephanos let out a heavy sigh. "...No. I was just saying, I ought to."

"...Real sorry about all this, Stef," Tinsley said, and meant it. 

Stephanos shrugged. "Eh, what's a little dubiously-justified murder between friends?" 

Ricky grinned. "I always knew you were alright."

"Don't push it." Stephanos glanced towards the doors. "You're here for the briefcase, right? You can't go in there."

"Cops?" asked Ricky. 

"Maizey with a shotgun?" Tinsley said tiredly. 

Stephanos nodded his confirmation to the latter. "She's okay with you staying outside, though. The briefcase is up in the room; wait here a minute and I'll get it."

Ricky opened his mouth to say something, but Stephanos was already through the door. He shrugged and leaned back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. Tinsley followed suit.

Ricky spent a few moments pensively watching the last of the rain drip off the awning. Something seemed to be bothering him, though, and eventually he spoke. "What are you going to do? Now that this is all over, I mean."

"Me?" Somehow, Tinsley hadn't actually thought about it. "Gee, I guess I don't know."

"Not going back to West Virginia?"

"Nah. I never felt attached to the place. I don't think I'm really attached to anywhere, to be honest." Tinsley looked over at Ricky, and spoke somewhat hesitantly. He _had_ thought about this. "What about you? Back to LA? ...You _should_ go to the hospital."

"Not a chance," Ricky said glibly. "And LA's out. I'm not exactly itching to reconnect with ol' Jack." He tipped his hat brim over his eyes. "...I'll have to lay low for a while, I think. Disappear somewhere until the heat is off."

"Makes sense."

They were both quiet for a few moments, observing each other out of the corners of their eyes, waiting to see if the other would be the one to take the plunge. Ultimately it was Ricky who spoke first. "How do you feel about disappearing, Tinsley?"

Tinsley shrugged, smiling a little. "Hm. Exciting. Nice change of pace. Something fun to do with a pal." 

Ricky laughed. He seemed relieved, which was how Tinsley felt, too. "Any particular destination in mind?"

Tinsley shrugged. "Like I said, I'm not tied down anywhere."

Ricky looked thoughtful. "I've half a mind to find your Chevy again and see how far west we can get before the engine explodes."

"Hope you like New York state, then," Tinsley said, only partly joking.

Ricky laughed again, and settled himself back against the wall, leaning into Tinsley's arm. His hand eventually found Tinsley's and laced their fingers together. "What should we do when we get there? Professional gambling? Hoboing? Murder for hire? Open a grocery store?"

"Beats me," Tinsley said, his thumb tracing circles on Ricky's knuckles. "Only thing I really know how to be is the worst detective in the world."

"Let's do that, then," Ricky said. "I'll be the second-worst. At least I won't have to lie to my mother anymore." He grinned. "Between the two of us, we'll be in the negative on crimes solved. A regular Holmes and Watson. Spade and Archer."

Tinsley didn't have the heart to bring up that Archer dies five minutes into that movie. "Sounds swell."

"Great, that settles it." Ricky quirked an eyebrow. "You gonna finally tell me your first name so we have something to put on the door?"

Tinsley grimaced. "...Don't push it."

The hotel door burst open, and Stephanos rushed outside, a stricken look on his face. "It wasn't there," he said. "It's gone!"

Tinsley pushed himself off the wall. "Huh? Slow down, what's going on?"

"Somebody jimmied the window and took the briefcase!" Stephanos held up a crumpled piece of paper. "All I found was this note. God, guys, I'm sorry, I thought it would be-"

"It's fine, Stef," Ricky said, sounding oddly unbothered. Tinsley gave him a side glance and took the note from Stephanos' hands. It was written in a lilting script on a piece of hotel stationery, in suspiciously red ink. "'Ricky dearest,'" Tinsley read aloud, raising an eyebrow. "'Thanks for a job well done, but I'll take it from here. You can keep your little boyfriend if you like. I'm off to LA; don't be a stranger. Francesca.'" He held the note in his hands, turning it over, but there was nothing else. "I guess that's that," he said, looking to Ricky and trying not to think too hard about the 'little boyfriend' line. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Ricky said. He took the note from him and ripped it up, tossing the pieces into a puddle of dirty rainwater to slowly dissolve. "Ol' Fran's not as smart as she thinks she is. Stef, would you mind going back inside and checking the ledge over the front door?"

Stephanos looked confused, but he nodded and went back into the hotel. Tinsley, meanwhile, was having a realization. "You had a fake made," he said. "And the mob lady took the fake…"

"Nothing gets past you," Ricky said, quirking a smile. "I did put a few of the less-interesting tidbits of blackmail material in the decoy, to really sell it. But we should be getting our real treasure chest in a couple of minutes."

Sure enough, Stephanos soon emerged with the briefcase in his hand. He scratched his head as he handed it off to Ricky. "That's… a pretty clever trick."

Ricky smiled with self-satisfaction. "See, I'm not just a pretty face," he said, looking up at Tinsley to say 'I told you so' with his raised eyebrows. Gloating accomplished, he became serious, stroking the handle of the briefcase with his thumb. "I'll stash this somewhere safe," he said. "Then we'll have something on them, and we'll be set."

"You could even say we'll be golden," Tinsley said, grinning when Ricky narrowed his eyes at the pun. But ultimately Goldsworth cocked his head and gave him a wry smile. "...You could say that.”

Stephanos gave an awkward cough and scuffed the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk. "So… if you guys are skipping town… I just wanted to say goodbye, then." He held out his hand for them to shake. "I mean, this whole thing was nuts … but I won't lie and say it wasn't exciting. It made me feel like a real detective, and not just some puffed up laundry detergent salesman. So..." He slipped Tinsley a business card, smiling a little sheepishly. "...if you're ever in New York, give me a ring, okay?"

"You betcha. And hey." Tinsley gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Thanks for everything, Stef. Really." 

He felt like he should say more, that maybe he should emote a little for the man who'd saved his life. But he'd never been good at goodbyes. And something told him they'd see each other again, eventually. Nobody could get rid of the Crime Pals that easy.

* * *

About an hour later, Tinsley was back behind the wheel of his Chevy, with Ricky splayed in the passenger's seat, driving west out of the city. The car's engine sputtered upsettingly, shaking a few slivers of glass from the cracks that were still in the rear windshield.

They drove for about an hour and a half, and as they went the city gradually faded into suburbs, then into little blue-collar towns surrounded by deep forest. They were puttering down a side street in one of these towns when Tinsley pulled the Chevy over to the side of the road. It rolled for a few feet, then stopped, and Tinsley leaned back, letting his hands drop from the wheel.

Ricky narrowed his eyes, his mouth forming a tight line. "...The car's broken down already, isn't it?"

Tinsley looked up at the sagging fabric of the car roof. "Yeah."

"Oh for fuck's-" Ricky slapped the glove box and let out a screech of frustration, then turned back to Tinsley. "You really weren't kidding about this thing falling apart, were you?! We're still in New York! Goddamned lemon-"

Tinsley shrugged. "Hey, at least we're not stuck out in the middle of the woods. I think I saw a roadside motel on the way in." He opened the car door and stretched his legs out over the road. They happened to have stopped in front of an abandoned storefront office, with boarded-up windows and a peeling 'For Let' sign on its front door. Its only neighbors were trees and overgrown patches of grass, though there was a row of weathered but well-kept houses across the street. Tinsley stepped out of the car and leaned his elbows on its roof, looking up at the building, contemplating. It was two stories tall; the upper level was probably living space…

Ricky got out a moment later and followed his gaze, frowning a little. "You're getting ideas, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Tinsley said, keeping his tone neutral. "Kinda cute little town, don'tcha think?"

"I don't like small towns," Ricky said, folding his arms.

"But they _are_ generally good places to disappear to. People out here value their privacy. Rent's probably cheap. It's not as small as Gauley Bridge, anyway. Not a lot of mob activity. And the big city's not too far."

Ricky stuck out his lip a little, his eyes straying to the empty building. Tinsley walked around the back of the car to stand next to him on the side of the road. "...You have to admit, it's got a sort of rustic charm," he said. "Would probably look pretty smart with a new paint job."

"It'd look better burned down for the insurance money," Ricky said, but surprisingly, he seemed to be coming around to the idea. He heaved a melodramatic sigh. "I guess I did say we'd stop wherever your Chevy shuffled off its mortal coil."

Tinsley grinned. "Is that a yes?"

"That's an 'I'll think about it after I've had a good long sleep at the motel,'" Ricky said. He pushed himself off the car and took a few steps down the road. "But if this podunk doesn't have at least one bar I'm out."

"That's fair."

They fell into step as they walked beside each other, eventually leaving the houses behind for an empty stretch of road, which Tinsley knew from the drive in would take them to the town proper. It was a short but scenic walk, especially now that the clouds had mostly dissipated and the sun was beginning to shine through. Tinsley felt well and truly relaxed for the first time in weeks. 

It wouldn't last; thanks to Banjo he knew he had a good many hard days ahead of him. But that was a problem for future Tinsley. Right now, he was having a lovely stroll with his former nemesis (and now what, exactly? He guessed they'd eventually figure it out). The danger was past, and all the mysteries had been solved.

...Well, almost all of them. Tinsley felt a pang of guilt as he remembered the case that had started all this; the Sodders. He'd quietly abandoned it once that trail had turned cold and everything else around him had started going nuts. At this point, it was pretty safe to say that he'd never crack it.

Tinsley shoved his hands into his pockets. All he could do was hope that the rest of the family would eventually find peace for themselves. He knew better than most that not every mystery could be solved, and that sometimes, when people disappeared, it was for good.

A thought struck him, and he paused and stood still for a moment. Something close to a wry chuckle escaped his lips. Ricky turned and raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

“...I just realized I’m gonna be an unsolved mystery,” Tinsley said, and laughed again. “Disappearing in the middle of a case. Now _I’m_ the case.”

Ricky snickered. “That is pretty ironic.” 

“You think they’ll put me in the papers?” Tinsley spread his hands, envisioning the headline. “‘Local Gumshoe Clarence Cole Tinsley Mysteriously Disappears, ‘Good Riddance’ Says West Virginia.’”

Ricky looked at him with astonishment, and only then did Tinsley realize he'd made a slip, one he’d managed to avoid making for years. He winced. “Now, don’t-”

“Your name is _Clarence?!_ ”

“I said don’t!” Tinsley said helplessly, watching Ricky dissolve into a fit of giggles. He put his hands on his hips. “Sure, fine, hyuck it up. Get it out of your system.”

“‘Clarence’ - like the dopey angel from that Jimmy Stewart Christmas movie!” Ricky wheezed, now bent over double with his hands on his thighs. “Oh christ, I’m laughing so hard it hurts…”

“That’d be the bullet wounds, you boob.”

Ricky straightened up and made a half-hearted swipe at him, still laughing. "Well, at least now I know your freaking _name_."

"It's my most closely-guarded secret," Tinsley said, not really exaggerating. He supposed he must have subconsciously felt comfortable entrusting Ricky with it, but he'd never admit that. “Forget you ever heard it.”

"Nothing doing. Ricky Goldsworth never forgets. Besides, this could be some prime blackmail material." Ricky stole a glance up and down the road; they were totally alone, with not another house or car in sight. Ricky grinned, and he grabbed Tinsley by the tie and pulled, making him stumble up against his chest. "Well? What are you gonna pay me to keep me quiet, _Clarence_?"

Tinsley's heart rate sped up and his face flushed almost immediately. "If you call me 'Clarence' again I will scream," he said, leaning in towards Ricky anyway. "I mean it."

Ricky 'hmmed' and brushed his lips over Tinsley's. "Fine," he said, his voice dropping low. "Now shut up and kiss me, Tins."

Tinsley was only too happy to oblige.

* * *

_\- - One Month Later - -_

The woman in the mink coat was clearly out of place in Slaterville. Heads turned as she hurried through the town, pulling her hat brim low to hide her face.

Eventually, she reached the edge of town and darted into a lonely office building, with the words 'Watcher Detective Agency' still drying on the frosted glass of the front door. Inside was a small waiting room, bare except for a wilting potted plant and a low front desk.

Behind the desk sat a tan young man with dark hair, dressed in a pressed grey suit. He looked up at the woman with sharp dark eyes. "We're about to close."

The woman sniffed, pushing her hat back. Her eyes were watery with tears. "Please… m- my brother's gone missing, and I can't go to the police…" She reached into her purse and withdrew two crisp hundred dollar bills. "Here; will this be enough? Mr. Stephanos said you could help…"

The man behind the desk stood up and snatched the bills, holding them up to the light and inspecting them. "Hey Tins!"

A door in the back wall opened, and a tall, unshaven man with tousled hair poked his head into the room, blinking. "Yeah?"

The first man grinned, baring bright white teeth. He waved the money. "We've got a client."

The woman in the mink coat clutched her hands in front of her chest. Something about that smile was unnerving, but the man's words gave her hope. "You'll help me?"

The taller man stepped into the room. "For two hundred big ones? Sure."

The woman sniffled, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "Oh, thank you…! I just know you'll bring Jimmy back safe, I know it!"

The tall man's expression took on a note of concern, and he leaned over and whispered in the shorter man's ear something about 'managing expectations.' The shorter man waved it off and stood up from the desk, clasping a hand on the tall man's shoulder. The touch was affectionate and familiar, almost to the point of habit. Somehow, these two total opposites seemed to fit together perfectly, like a hand in a glove. It was as if neither of them had ever existed anywhere else except at each other's side.

"Don't worry," the shorter man said, and grinned. "Ricky Goldsworth and C.C. Tinsley are on the case."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Aaahhhh I can't believe it's done!
> 
> I just wanted to say a HUGE thank you to everyone who read, kudos'd, and commented on this fic! You guys really kept me going throughout this whole process, and I really appreciate it!
> 
> (Also I currently have like half a chapter of a sequel written so maybe keep an eye out for that… heh heh heh...)
> 
> Anyway, thanks again for reading & sticking with this thing all the way to the end! 'Til next time!


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